


i'll make the world (safe and sound for you)

by Chrome



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton is on Twitter, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, and we keep tagging anyway, may add further warnings later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst week of Alexander Hamilton's life starts with a phone call from Columbia Hospital.</p><p>And that's not counting the gun control bill, his eldest daughter's declining mental health, and his ongoing Twitter war with Abigail Adams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting on the modern AU bandwagon. And the Alexander-Hamilton-has-a-Twitter bandwagon (which we'll see a lot more of in future chapters). And the angst bandwagon, because it's not like this fandom doesn't have enough suffering already.

Angelica Hamilton is at the library during her free period when an article from some crappy blogging site comes up on her Facebook feed--SECRETARY OF TREASURY'S SON SHOT BY GUN LOBBYIST--and she dismisses it as a rumor. Her father isn't the world's most popular person right now, considering the sweeping gun control laws he's enthusiastically attempting to implement, and it seems a lot like all the other scare tactics.

When she realizes how many people are sharing it, she starts to get annoyed, and pulls up her father's Twitter feed, looking for a sarcastic comment about it. People keep tweeting at him, after all.

But @adotham has gone, inexplicably, silent.

And that's when Angie calls her mother.

\---

Alexander Hamilton is not expecting his not-particularly-good week to turn into the worst week of his life, not even when the person on the other end of the phone says they’re calling from Columbia Hospital. “Sir, we need you to come as soon as you can,” the woman says, and there’s a worrying sympathetic tone to her voice.

"Why? What's wrong?" he demands. Aaron Burr, standing across from him with a file, pauses, watching with some interest.

"Your son Philip has been shot. Sir, we need you to come as soon as possible."

Hamilton realizes he has frozen; for the first time in his life, he is speechless. Burr sees him, takes the phone from his hand. "Hello, Aaron Burr speaking. I'm here with Mr. Hamilton. I'm sorry, could you please repeat that?"

He doesn't hear the rest of the conversation, not at all, the blood is rushing in his ears, all he can hear is his heartbeat and the words Your son Philip has been shot, over and over again.

Burr hangs up, takes him by the arm, calls for a car. Usually Hamilton never takes advantage of the fact he could have a driver, that he's actually the Secretary of the Treasury and can get people to do things for him, but he's never been happier for the advantage than in this moment, because all he can think about is getting to Philip. It had made perfect sense at the time--Philip was nineteen and in college, he didn't need his family in the same city, he needed independence, Hamilton's job was elsewhere--but right now he can't come up with a single reason the family should have moved to DC.

Eliza will be--"Eliza," he says, breathless. "Eliza, you have to call her." He doesn't trust himself right now to be able to actually speak those words, even if he had the presence of mind to take out his phone and dial.

"Of course," Burr says. They're in the car and he takes out his phone and dials. "Mrs. Hamilton," he hears him say, and then he stops listening.

\---

Eliza's cell phone rings while she's in line at the supermarket, and she almost doesn't pick up because it would be rude, but she sees it's Aaron Burr, of all people, and answers out of sheer curiosity. "Hello?" She’s half-expecting to be asked to adjudicate some childish argument, before she hears his voice.

"Mrs. Hamilton," he says, formally, too formally and she starts to stiffen, because they know each other well enough by now for her to be Eliza to him, and then: "You need to come to the airport. I can send a car, if--"

"Why?" She's speaking too loudly, getting strange looks. "What happened?"

"Philip's been shot," Burr says, softly. "We don't know anything else. We’re getting a plane ready to take you."

She can't speak. She can't answer Burr--or the cashier, because she's somehow reached the front of the line and everyone is staring at her, wondering why she’s standing there silent with the phone to her ear.

"I'm coming," she says, pulling herself together, hanging up. One step at a time. That's all she can do. 

"Ma'am?" asks the cashier, and the woman behind her is glaring and Eliza wants to throttle her.

"I'm so sorry," her voice sounds faint in her own ears. "I have to go. My son's been shot."

The cashier looks stricken. The woman behind her stops glaring, and the man behind the woman stops tapping his foot impatiently. It is, for a moment, silent. Then, an older woman with dark hair pulled into a bun steps forward from somewhere in the line and takes her arm.

"Where is he, honey?" The woman pulls out her phone. "We'll call a taxi."

"I need to get to the airport." She still feels as though she's speaking from a distance. "He's at Columbia. He goes to Columbia."

"You must be proud of him," the woman is trying to be soothing, Eliza can tell, and it would get on her nerves if she wasn't already so numb.

"Very," she whispers, and as the woman dials a taxi company she dials her sister.

"Angelica," she says, and her voice breaks.

"Eliza? What's wrong?" Angelica knows her too well, can hear in her voice exactly how afraid she is right now, even if she doesn't know why.

"I need to go to New York. They said--they said Philip's been shot." She forces the words out, realizing that her cheeks are wet. "Can you get the kids from school?"

Angelica loves Philip, too, and Eliza is worried for half a heartbeat that her sister will shatter like she has, but she is quiet for only a moment. "Of course," she promises. "They can stay with us as long as you need."

"Thank you. So much. I'll--"

Angelica gently cuts her off. "Do what you need for Philip, love. I'm here for you. Just let me know what's going on, okay? I love you."

"Love you too," she whispers, and waits for the cab.

\---

Her mom doesn't pick up, but Angie doesn't have time to worry much more, because she hears her name over the loudspeaker, telling her to come to the office. She jams her books in her backpack and jogs down the hall, hoping it's something stupid and small and anything but...

"Mom?" she demands, when she bursts into the office, but it's her Aunt Angelica instead. 

"Hey honey," her aunt says. "Your mom had to go to New York--"

"It's Philip. It's Philip, isn't it? It's on the news. Philip's dead--is Philip dead?"

"No, honey," her aunt says. "He's not. I don't know anything else, but your mom and dad promised to call as soon as they find out."

She can't hold back the tears anyway, and she hugs Aunt Angelica and sobs.

"It will be okay," Angelica murmurs. "I promise." She can only hope she isn't lying.

\---

There's a plane on the tarmac already when Eliza's taxi gets to the airport, and an aide waiting to lead her to it.  
Alexander is already on the plane, Aaron Burr pacing by the entrance until he sees her.

"Mrs. Hamilton," he greets, formally, and then he steps forward and grips her shoulder. His expression is haunted, in the same way she imagines hers is, and she remembers abruptly that he has children, too. "If there's anything I can do, at all, name it. If I can help--"

"I'll remember it," she promises, meaning it. "Thank you."

She climbs the stairs to the plane and Alexander stands as he sees her in the doorway and then he's beside her and they're holding each other, as tightly as they can. They stand there for a long time, only sitting when the pilot informs them that the plane is going to take off. Eliza collapses into the seat next to her husband, feeling abruptly like all the life has been drained out of her.

"Philip," she says, realizing she's crying again, but now she can't hold the tears back. Alexander just looks pale, shaken, as though it hasn't fully hit him yet. "Is he going to survive?"

"I spoke to the hospital," he says. "They said--he's in surgery. That's all."

"Who did this, Alexander?" she says, suddenly furious that someone dared to try and take their son from them. It has only been, at most, half an hour of this living hell, and she's not sure she can bear it much longer.

"They said it was a man, a law student." He's shaking his head, as though he can't believe his own words. "God, I can't believe--our son, Eliza." He stares, dead-eyed, out the window. "He'll be alright. He will. I know it."

That is, she is certain, the one thing they don't know, but Alexander has always believed that he can warp reality to his words, and she lets him say the lies out loud in hopes that it will make them true.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander fights people on Twitter, Eliza tries her hand at detective work, Angie falls apart, Angelica holds everything together, and Philip fights to stay alive.

@aaronburrsir  
All my thoughts and prayers @adotham and his family.

@HuffPost  
Philip Hamilton shot by SoT's political enemies http://bit.ly/s3h2j

@POTUS  
@adotham All our support is behind Sec. Hamilton and family

@genlafayette  
@adotham let me know what I can do, literally anything just call

@mrsabigaila  
@adotham I warned you that God would punish you for your sins

@adotham  
@POTUS @aaronburrsir @everyone Thank you for the kind words, it means a great deal

@adotham  
@mrsabigaila Fuck you for suggesting this was caused by my bisexuality or that my son somehow deserved any of this for any reason (1/5)

@adotham  
@mrsabigaila you repressed whore. (5/5)

\---

When they get to the waiting room, a little more than two hours after that first call, the receptionist looks sympathetic and tells them he's in surgery.

"Still?" Eliza asks Alexander. “What does that mean?” She knows he doesn’t know any more than she does, but she’s used to him having all the answers and the uncertainty is killing them both.

“It means he’s still alive,” says Alexander, softly, and Eliza isn’t sure if that’s a comfort or a punch to the gut. They sit down in the hard plastic chairs, and he takes out his phone and starts typing, rapid-fire like always. He texts incredibly fast, she’s always thought, faster even than most of their kids. They’d had a competition once, and he’d beat them all but Philip.

Philip had promptly credited her for the victory--“I guess the piano is good practice.” She’d tried all her kids on the piano, but only Angie and Philip had bothered to keep playing beyond childhood. Angie was a good pianist, but she’d never improvised the way Philip did. Eliza has a flash of memory, Philip showing off, playing a harmony instead of a scale just to show that he could…

“Alexander,” she whispers, and he looks up from the phone. “Please tell me that we’re not going to lose our son.”

He says nothing. For the first time she can remember, she can’t bear to look in his eyes: there is too much pain in them. Instead, she stands.

“I’m going to go talk to the police. I want to know how this happened.” It feels painfully retroactive, but everything she can do now is merely reactionary. Her son has been shot, and she would do anything in the world to rewind time and stop the bullet, but it’s too late and all they can do is contain the bleeding. “Call me if anything happens.”

“Of course,” he says, and then he glances at his phone again and his frown deepens and he starts typing. She envies him that he can find a way to occupy himself here, but the room is stifling her and she can’t sit still.

She starts by ambushing a nurse in the hallway, one who’s young enough to be bullied into providing more information.

“My son was brought in earlier today,” she begins, and the nurse (whose nametag says Lucy) shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, I might not remember—“

“I’m Eliza Hamilton,” she says, and Lucy’s eyes widen. “My son Philip was shot. What can you tell me?”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, and for half a second Eliza regrets asking but pushes on anyway.

“What do you know?”

“I can’t—“

“I know you’re not a doctor,” Eliza says, a little desperate. “I know you might not have been assigned to him. But no one will tell us anything. Please tell me, whatever you know. He’s my son—“

Her voice breaks, and the nurse steps a little closer as though to comfort her, but freezes before she makes contact. “I don’t know how he is,” she says, “I’ll try to find a doctor to come talk to you, I promise.”

“Wait,” Eliza says, before she can make her escape. “Did you—did you see him?”

The nurse nods, after a moment of hesitation.

“Was he—“ she doesn’t know what she wants to ask. How he looked? Whether he was in pain? “Did he—say anything?”

“He was—in pain. He asked for you, and his father.” The young woman looks distressed. “I’ll go get a doctor, okay?”

“Okay,” Eliza lets her go, mostly because she doesn’t have the energy to keep pushing. She feels as though people are avoiding her, failing to make eye contact or ducking into doorways when they see her, and she’s terribly afraid of what that means. No one wants to talk about Philip.

She wonders, morbidly, if that’s what’s taking so long, all the doctors drawing straws to tell her that they’re sorry, they did everything they could, but—

It’s a significant relief when she sees the police officer, especially since the man doesn’t even try to avoid looking directly at her.

“Sir,” she says. “I’m Eliza Hamilton, I don’t know if you know anything about—“

To her great relief, he is nodding. “Let’s sit down.”

And that is how Eliza finds herself sitting in the hospital cafeteria with what could very possibly be the worst cup of coffee she’s ever had.

“He was shot in front of an academic building shortly after a class,” the officer tells her. “We’ve apprehended the assailant—he’s a law student, George Eacker. Apparently, he had a political ethics class with your son.”

“Why did he do it?” All she can imagine is how he looked the last time she saw him, at the beginning of September just before he left for New York. He’d turned back to look at her from the security line at the airport, and he smiled. Her son, her oldest son, how could he…

“We spoke to some of his other classmates,” the detective tells her. “Apparently, they argued earlier this week. Mr. Eacker was very…critical, of your husband, and Philip confronted him.”

“And—“ it doesn’t make sense to Eliza, not yet.

“Apparently the debate went—in your son’s favor,” he gives a grim smile. “Eacker was very upset. He demanded an apology this morning, and when Philip refused—“

“He shot him,” Eliza whispers, and the man nods, and now she knows but it doesn’t make anything better.

\---

Angie slumps in the passenger seat of the SUV, cheek pressed to the window. She’s staring out at the street but not really seeing it. Her aunt collects her first from the high school, and then Alex and James from junior high, and then John from the elementary school, and finally William and Eliza from daycare. Alex is pretty quiet but James has a lot of questions, and John feeds off James. William doesn’t really get what’s going on but he can tell that the others are upset and so he gets upset, and little Eliza starts crying because everyone’s being loud and no one is paying attention to her and Angie covers her ears with her hands but she can’t block them out.

When they get back to the house she runs upstairs to her room and just lies on the bed. She can hear the others downstairs, shouting, talking, moving around, and she pulls the pillow over her head and ignores it all.

In the muffled, dark world of her bed, she can pretend anything she wants. Pretend that her mom is home, in the kitchen with little Eliza on her hip and William trailing after her, baking—cookies. And her father is home, too, in the living room with the other boys. Maybe they’re rapping, especially Philip who’s good at it. Mom’s in the kitchen, so she doesn’t yell at him when he jumps up on the coffee table for a line he’s particularly proud of. Maybe in a few minutes, she’ll head downstairs and join them. Maybe she’ll play the piano and they’ll listen, maybe Philip will play a harmony.

Or maybe she’ll go into the kitchen instead and get up on the counter, chat with mom about school or quiz William on how day care was. She’ll hear her father and Philip in the next room, talking faster and louder than the rest of them, and Alex Jr. and James and John chiming in and bickering and banging at the keys instead of playing properly.

She daydreams until there’s a knock on the door. Angie doesn’t answer, but her aunt enters anyway and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Angie, honey. How are you doing?” She appreciates that Aunt Angelica doesn’t ask if she’s okay. That would be too obvious.

She shrugs, a sort of limp sideways movement because of her position on the bed. She does lift the pillow off her face, though, and look at her aunt.

“Oh, love,” Angelica strokes her hair. “I wish I could tell you that everything would be fine, but I can’t. I can tell you that we all love you very much, and that we’re going to survive no matter what happens. Okay?”

Angie nods, although it isn’t okay.  
“I’m ordering pizza for dinner,” Angie says, a little ruefully. “I don’t know how Eliza cooks for you all. Not on short notice, I imagine. Come down when you’re ready, okay?”

She nods again, but when Angelica leaves, she pulls the pillow back over her face and goes to sleep.

\---

Eliza returns to the waiting room to find Alexander pacing. There’s a few other people in the room now, but they’re all sitting still, eyes tracing her husband’s path back and forth.

“Alexander,” she says, “I talked to the police.”

“Did they find him?” There’s no doubt as to who he’s referring to.

“Yes.”

Alexander’s hand balls into a fist. “If I could see him—“

“I know,” she says, grimly. Three and a half hours ago, she would have laughed at the idea of punching someone as a solution to a problem, but right now she’s sure she wouldn’t stop at just one, if someone put her in a room with George Eacker.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton?” someone says behind them, and they both turn. A doctor is standing in the doorway. “Can I speak with you?”

They respond at the same time. “How is he? Can we see him?” Alexander asks. His words overlapped with Eliza’s: “Is he breathing? Is he going to survive?”

The doctor holds the door open for them, leading them down the hallway. “I’m going to be direct. The bullet entered his right side above his hip and passed through his abdomen,” she says. “It then embedded itself in his left arm. He lost a great deal of blood, and the organ damage was not insignificant.”

Eliza inhales sharply. Alexander is less speechless. “What does that mean? He’ll be alright, won’t he?”

“Sir,” the doctor says, looking sympathetic. “He survived surgery, which was more than we had hoped for. But his wounds are extensive and infected. You can see him, but,” she hesitates, “You should also take the opportunity to say goodbye. I’m very sorry, but it’s unlikely he’ll live through the night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my god, so much to say about this chapter. I wrote most of it listening to “Take a Break” on repeat, mostly for the relationship between Philip and his parents. One thing to note is that at nine years old, Philip actually had a sister and two little brothers (unlike his rap “I have a sister but I want a little brother”). Actually, the Hamiltons had children like they were going out of fashion (seven at the time of this story, jesus. That’s a lot of children, as Angelica is obviously finding out in this chapter. Historically, they had one more son after Philip’s death, who they also named Philip, you know, just for the extra heartbreak). Miranda actually wrote a song with the stories of all the other Hamilton children that you should definitely look up because it’s great. (I’ve got a list with their current ages written up otherwise I can’t keep track. Obviously, Alexander and Eliza had a lot of sex.)
> 
> The other important thing in this chapter is Abigail Adams! Who, yeah, is a bit the villain in this instance. In some ways she’s pretty rad, because she was a feminist and abolitionist and very intelligent and a prolific letter writer. On the other hand, she was also like, obsessively Puritanical, and once wrote a letter talking about how you could see the devil in Hamilton’s eyes, so…yeah, they’ve clearly got some ideological differences and animosity.
> 
> A final note is that, as may be clear at this point, there is no Reynolds Pamphlet in this AU because Alexander Hamilton didn’t have an affair with Maria Reynolds. Whether you think this is realistic is entirely dependent on your assessment of Hamilton’s character, but imo the modern era would not give Hamilton the physical and emotional distance necessary to compel him to cheat on his wife. After all, he can call/text/email/Tweet at her whenever, and even if she and the kids went away from the summer, it would only be a couple hours drive, so I can’t see him being tempted in the same way he could be in the eighteenth century.
> 
> Also, a note: this is all unbetaed. If anyone would be interested in proofreading future chapters, hit me up.
> 
> I live on feedback--please comment/ask questions/scream incoherently at me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look brighter for Philip and darker for Angie, and Aaron Burr threatens to voice an opinion in the Senate.

There is nothing outwardly wrong with the hospital room—it is white, sterile, but Eliza knows it cannot be as sinister as it seems to her eyes.  The looming IV stands and the beeping of the heart monitor make her want to recoil, but the real prisoner in this room is her son, and forget mostly-innocuous rooms, she would walk through rivers of fire to reach him in this instant.  Alexander doesn’t hesitate to enter—perhaps he does not get the same feeling from the doorway—but freezes when he gets a few steps inside, and she nearly bumps into his back.

Instead, she steps around him and sees the picture that made him freeze: Philip, lying terrible still, pale even against the white sheets.  She crosses the distance to him and takes his hand—it is cold, and she knits their fingers together and holds tightly, as though the warmth of her palm can help breath life back into him.

There is a window, and the fading light of the evening spills into the room.  A single strip of light falls across Philip’s face, and his cheek looks all the paler for the additional illumination.  His dark hair spills down the pillow, and she carefully tucks a stray lock behind his ear.  Even in unconsciousness, she can see the lines of pain on his face, and it shatters her to think that this is something she can’t save him from.

Footsteps; Alexander stands beside her, but they can’t look at each other.  He reaches out a hand towards Philip’s face but stops just short of brushing it with his fingertips; he looks too fragile, as though he might shatter.

“My son,” he whispers, anguished, and Eliza slips her free hand into Alexander’s and squeezes.  After a moment, he squeezes back.

They have forgotten the presence of the doctor; she clears her throat and they both start a little.  “The sedative from the surgery should be wearing off,” she says.  “He’s still on painkillers, and antibiotics for the infection, but he’s very weak.  He may not wake.”

“Not tonight, you mean,” Alexander says, and Eliza hates and loves his stubbornness all at the same time, because he knows nothing about medicine but he can’t accept the unimaginable and so will deny it anyway.  It hurts because she knows he’s wrong and yet as long as he says it, she can pretend things might be okay.

She can’t bear to look at the expression of sympathy that passes across the woman’s face.  “It’s likely that he’ll pass away in his sleep,” she says, not unkindly.  “There’s nothing more we can do but hope that the antibiotics work and that he has the strength to fight it.  I’ll leave you with him.”

Eliza looks to Alexander; for a moment after the doctor leaves, he looks utterly destroyed.  Then he settles back into stubbornness.

“He’ll do it,” he says.  “He’ll wake up.  He’s our son.”  Alexander doesn’t say, _he has to_ , but she hears it anyway.

Eliza squeezes his hand again, feeling the warmth from his skin that is utterly absent from Philip’s limp digits, and prays that he’s right.

\---

\---

“Who are you texting?” Eliza asks.  It’s been more than an hour, and they’d lapsed into a silence shortly after the doctor left.  About forty-five minutes later, after the sun had finished its plunge below the horizon, Alexander had started texting.

“Aaron,” he answers.  She remembers the phone call from the morning.  “He asked about Philip.  I told him he wasn’t awake yet.”

Eliza hates that little word, ‘yet’, and loves it all at the same time.  Part of her wants to stand up and shout at him, demand to know why he’s insisting on giving her hope when every bit of sense she has is telling her to prepare for the worst.  That part isn’t large enough to overcome the part that clings to his confidence, because it’s so much stronger than hers.

“I talked to the detective,” Eliza remembers, suddenly.  “About what happened.”

Alexander looks up from his phone.  “Did he know—why?”

“A debate, of all things,” she laughs, weakly.  “I guess—the man, he said something about you that Philip took offense to, and Philip decided to humiliate him in front of the class.”  Eliza looks sideways at her husband.  “Sound like someone you know?”

A small smile appears on Alexander’s face.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.”  She leans against him, ignoring the arm of the plastic chair digging into her side in favor of resting her cheek on his shoulder.  He stills to avoid disturbing her; she doesn’t expect to be able to sleep at all, but it has been an utterly exhausting day and she does end up dozing briefly.

It’s getting later, maybe eleven, maybe sometime past, when she wakes.  She isn’t sure what it is—by now, Alexander has also slid into sleep in the chair next to her—but maybe it’s some kind of instinct, because no more than a minute or so after she straightens back up, Philip stirs.

“Alexander,” she nudges him and he jerks into wakefulness.  “Philip!”

He shakes off sleep almost in an instant, leaning forward in his chair.  Their son shifts, shrugging off part of the sheets, and she can see the first flash of bandages beneath the cloth.  She doesn’t have time to fixate on it, though, because she is distracted by his quiet whimper of pain.

The sound breaks her heart; Alexander stands to get closer to the bed, as though to do something, but they are both equally helpless.  Philip lets out another small noise and twists to the side, the motion minimal but almost violent in its suddenness.  She wonders if she could call a nurse, a doctor, anyone who could help her son, but then he takes a sharp breath and his eyes flutter open.

“Philip,” Alexander says in a strangled tone, half-hopeful.  Philip blinks, and Eliza sees his eyes are glazed with some mix of exhaustion and agony and wonders if he can see them, worries for half a second that he doesn’t know they are there.

Then he says, “Dad,” more an exhalation than a word, and Alexander says, “I’m here,” and touches Philip’s face, brushing a stray strand of hair from in front of his eyes.

“We’re both here, baby,” Eliza says, and takes his hand again and squeezing it.  His fingers still feel cool,  a little clammy, but this time he squeezes back, weakly.

“Mom, I’m sorry,” he says, after a shuddering breath.  “I didn’t think he would—“

“I know,” she assures him.  “I know.  Save your strength.”

“Dad,” Philip says, “I wanted to make you proud, I—“

“I know.  And I am,” Alexander says, softly.  “We are so, so proud of you.”

Philip seems to relax a little, though Eliza doesn’t think the pain has lessened, not judging by the slight trembling of his slight frame.  With the sheets displaced by his movement, she can see the bandages running up his left arm, a flash of white gauze at his hip that is left uncovered.

She straightens the blankets, careful not to make contact with his injuries.  He manages a little smile, looking at her, and it kills her all over again that there’s nothing she can do to defend him.

He sinks back into the pillow, blinks, and she is suddenly struck by the fear that this is their last conversation, that this is the end, and then Alexander speaks.

“Philip.  Son, I need you to do something for me.  Promise me you’ll do it.”

Eliza wants to stop him, wonders how he can make demands of their child as he lies here, utterly spent from even their brief conversation, but Philip whispers, “Okay.”

“Stay alive.  Promise me, you’ll stay alive.”

Alexander is half-kneeling by the bed, looking directly into Philip’s eyes.  Their son blinks, and for a moment, his eyes seem to clear.  She sees the same violet, the same sharpness in both their gazes, so much that it’s almost like a reflection, and no one in the world could doubt in that moment that Philip was his son.  In that same moment, the pain is briefly replaced by the same look of stubborn determination that has been on her husband’s face every time he denies the doctor’s words.

“I promise,” Philip says, and then his eyes seem to dull and the look of pain returns.

“We love you,” Eliza says, because she’s suddenly seized by the irrational fear that he doesn’t know.  She can’t help him, but she can be here for him, and she prays that’s enough.

His eyes slide shut and his hand goes limp in hers again, and she thinks that this is it, her son is gone, but the heart monitor keeps beeping steadily and his chest rises and falls as he settles back into sleep.

“He woke up,” Alexander whispers.  “He’s going to be alright.”

“The doctor said he might not make it through the night,” Eliza says, afraid to admit her hope too soon.

“Philip will,” he says.  “We’ll stay with him.  We’ll all still be here in the morning.”

Alexander sits back down beside her and she watches her son keep breathing and lets herself, for a few minutes, believe it.

\---

\---

The next morning, Angelica opens the door to Angie’s room and leans against the wall.  “Hey, honey.  How are you feeling?  Did you sleep okay?”

“No,” Angie lies.  “I’m really tired.”  That part is true, but she slept fine the night before.  She feels a bit guilty about it, actually.  She knows she’s supposed to be consumed with worry, so much that she can’t close her eyes, but instead she slept like a rock.

“Do you want to stay home from school today?” Angelica asks.  “It’s up to you.”

“Are the boys staying home?” she asks.

“No,” Angelica answers, “But I made them the same offer.  They all decided that they wanted to go.  You should do whatever is best for you.”

“Okay,” says Angie.  She really doesn’t want to get up, not at all.  “I want to stay home.”

“Okay,” says Angelica.  “I’m taking the boys to school, and then I have to go into work for a few hours.  Will you be alright here alone?”

“Yes,” says Angie.  She’s almost an adult, after all.  She can handle being alone in the house.

“Okay.  You have my number, call me if you need anything.  And eat something—you missed dinner, remember.”

“Okay.”  Angie still doesn’t move, but she hears Angelica leave.  She listens to the sounds of the house—the boys dressing, talking, breakfast, the slam of the door and the rumble of the car in the driveway.

She thinks about getting up, getting a bowl of cereal, but that would mean dealing with the empty house and Mom and Dad in New York and daring to look at the phone lying on her desk and seeing all the people online talking about her brother, her brother who has been shot and criticizing him and her father and her family and she can’t, not at all, so she rolls back over and goes to sleep again.

\---

Eliza startles awake in the bright sunlight, spilling through the window.  Alexander is dead asleep next to her, his phone resting on his lap as though he’d fallen asleep texting.  The light illuminates his face, the faint stubble that has developed over the course of the past day and night, and it falls across the white floor and the white sheets that rise and fall, slightly, steadily, because her son is still, somehow, breathing.

Suddenly she’s laughing and laughing and can’t stop, and Alexander wakes up and blinks, confused, at her for a moment, and then he hears the beeping of the heart monitor and his smile, the brightness in his violet eyes, are the best thing she has ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, you guys are actually the best. Your comments seriously made my life. Admittedly, I didn't expect all the screaming in anguish. But it was all those lovely comments that really encouraged me to get this chapter out in record time. Thank you, so much--I'm so glad you're all enjoying this, hopefully as much as I enjoy writing it.
> 
> Um, um, chapter notes! This one, I spent a lot of time listening to "Stay Alive (Reprise)". This is not exactly the light at the end of the tunnel for Philip--it's more of the eye of the storm--but he's hanging in there. (And on antibiotics. That comment. That was my favorite comment. I screenshotted it on my phone and sent it to people, I was so delighted.)
> 
> Next time, we check back in with Alexander Hamilton's ongoing Twitter war, find out how well those antibiotics are working, and see Burr and Hamilton write a speech. 
> 
> Looking forward to hearing from all of you--comments, questions, suggestions, tears of anguish, all welcomed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander adds fuel to the Twitter drama, Aaron writes a speech, and the storm is far from over.

@HuffPost  
Future of gun control bill uncertain as Sec. Hamilton remains absent from Washington http://bit.ly/s3h3j

@mrsabigaila  
God grants us small blessings

@bestschuylersister  
@HuffPost Because he’s with his son, fuck off

@thomasjeff  
@bestschuylersister Bit low even for you, @HuffPost

@thomasjeff  
@HuffPost @bestschuylersister Still, can’t pass a bill if no one speaks for it

@aaronburrsir  
@HuffPost @bestschuylersister @thomasjeff I wouldn’t worry about that

@thomasjeff  
must be misinterpreting this… #wtf  
RT: @HuffPost @bestschuylersister @thomasjeff I wouldn’t worry about that

@genlafayette  
when the world turns upside down…  
RT: @HuffPost @bestschuylersister @thomasjeff I wouldn’t worry about that

@adotham  
@mrsabigaila i know it can take the elderly some time to adjust to new technologies, but you can use @ to make sure the people you’re insulting know

@mrsabigaila  
There will always be men who think the world revolves around them.

@adotham  
@mrsabigaila that wasn’t even fucking subtle

@adotham  
also, my kid is pretty great

\---

A nurse comes in the next morning, checking on Philip, but he doesn’t wake again. He does stir occasionally or make a sound of distress, and even if Eliza’s started to doze off again it rouses her immediately.

“Do you think he’s having a nightmare?” she asks, after the second time. She cards her fingers through Philip’s dark hair and he quiets; she tears her eyes away from his face to look back at her husband.

Alexander appears to be attempting to write an essay on his phone, but is just as easily distracted from it by Philip as she is from sleep. He frowns slightly, looking at their son, and then shakes his head. “It might be the pain.”

Eliza wants to tell him that’s not better, not at all, but she can’t blame him for the situation, so she hovers over Philip for another moment before sitting back down.

“Are you on Twitter?” she asks, a little reproachful, because they’ve been up half the night and Alexander isn’t tactful even at his best.

There is a pause, and she can tell he’s considering lying. “Not much.”

“Of course not,” Eliza sighs, and doesn’t look, because she doesn’t want to know.

“I’m also working on some ideas for the speech.”

“Oh, God.” Eliza has completely forgotten about Alexander’s latest project in the face of this. “You’re not going back to DC?”

She doesn’t think he would. Not with Philip still so near to death, he wouldn’t go. He loves Philip too much to risk abandoning him, and Eliza too much to leave her to face this alone. But he also has far too many terrible ideas about his duty to their nation, to accomplish great things, and she also can’t imagine him giving up this chance.

“No,” he says, and she relaxes. “You’ll never believe this, actually.”

“It’s a day for miracles,” she says, looking over at Philip and remembering his faint attempts to sit up the night before, the split second when the worry that she’d never see his eyes again was brushed away. “What is it?”

“Aaron said he’d give the speech.”

Eliza is momentarily startled. Alexander and Aaron are friends, to be sure, but it’s also well understood that Aaron is not really a political ally. Nor is he, generally speaking, a political enemy, if only because you don’t tend to face down many people on issues when you’re a member of what her husband has derisively referred to as ‘the Neutralist party’. “Really?”

“I was surprised too,” he says, and then turns his phone towards her, so she can see the string of texts from the night before.

“That’s kind of him,” she says, softly, and Alexander nods.  
“Now we have to do is write it.”

\---

Aaron Burr shuts his office door and tells his secretary to tell anyone who comes looking for him that he’s gone out. Then he calls Alexander Hamilton, expecting to leave a message, and is surprised when the man picks up.

“Burr,” he greets, and then launches right into it, “So, to start off with, I’m thinking you can highlight the rising gun violence in the country and point out we almost got to this point ten years ago, except the gun lobby—“

“Hamilton,” he cuts him off, “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?” Hamilton sounds offended. “Look, Burr, it’s a polarizing speech, you can’t expect to be nice to everyone.”

“Nor do I have to alienate everyone right out of the gate,” he says. Burr expected this argument, and he’s prepared for it, mostly because he’s thought a lot about giving this speech.

Mostly, he’s thought about why he’s giving this speech.

“Listen to me,” Alexander says, persevering, “I’ve written it—you might want to tone it down just a little, but really I think it’s—hang on, I’ll email it to you.”

He waits for the email to arrive, opens it, reads the first half-page and skims through the next twenty.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m not going to give a speech that’s practically designed to divide people across party lines. Or accuse people of being bought off by the NRA.”

“That’s true, though.”

“I don’t need to say it,” says Burr. “Tell me about Philip.”

Hamilton is momentarily quiet; Aaron has actually managed to throw him with the subject change. “What do you mean?”

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s—“ Alexander thinks about telling him to fuck off, but he’s pretty sure that Aaron is actually, genuinely concerned about Philip. He’d spoken to the hospital when the first call came, and he’d known Philip since he was a child, and then there’s the most important thing.

Alexander doesn’t always get along with Aaron Burr, mostly because the man will do anything to avoid answering a direct question or having an opinion or standing for something—but the one thing Hamilton’s always known about him, for a fact, is that he will do anything for his daughter.

And Alexander needs to talk to someone about this who is not completely consumed with desperate hope like he and Eliza.

“We don’t know,” he finally says. “He’s alive, which—apparently was not a sure thing. But he—he woke up for a little while, last night, and he talked to us, and he’s still breathing so—“

Aaron is not used to this from Hamilton, the lack of continuity to his words, the hesitance. Almost nothing will leave Alexander Hamilton speechless, but this has clearly had an impact.

“He was shot—once? Was it intentional?” he asks, when it’s clear that Hamilton’s not continuing.

“Once,” Alexander says, and suddenly imagines what the doctor described, the bullet cutting through his son like nothing. “But it—God, Aaron, he was shot in the side and it went—straight through him, into his other arm. Why is there something that can do that?”

“That’s what this bill is for,” Aaron says, reasonably, and then says, “I have a different idea. Give me ten minutes and I’ll send it to you.”

“Fine,” Hamilton says.

Aaron Burr considers it and then makes a promise he doesn’t particularly like. “If you don’t like it, I’ll give yours.”

Hamilton sounds surprised. “Okay.”

“Give me ten minutes. Oh, and, Alexander—I’m sorry, about Philip,” he adds, sincerely. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Thanks, Aaron,” he says. “I’ll call you back when I’ve read your speech.”

Aaron pulls up the half-finished document and fills in the blanks; a little more than ten minutes later, he sends it to Hamilton. Three minutes after that, his phone rings.

“You’re right,” Hamilton says, immediately. “Yours is better.”

\---

Hamilton is in and out of the room all morning, typing, on the phone, reading, on the phone again. Eliza painstakingly answers her email, her texts. Angelica has been sending her updates on the kids, everyone she works with at the orphanage has been sending condolences and rearranging schedules. She has texts from Alex Jr. and James, and some from John on Alex’s phone. They all want to know how Philip is; James tells her about school, John asks when she’s coming home. She tries to be reassuring without lying outright, promises to call them that afternoon when they’re back from school.

It’s around eleven AM when Philip moves again, and at first she thinks he’s just shifting in his sleep, but then the movement is more violent because he is suddenly convulsing, knocking the sheets to the floor. She is at his side in an instant, knowing better than to try and hold him still but horrified at the idea of letting whatever-this-is run its course. “Help!” she shouts, and then, more desperately, “Alexander!”

He isn’t far, just outside the room, and returns in only seconds, a nurse with him. The doctor arrives only a few minutes later and gives the nurse instructions, adjusts something, checks something else, all things that Eliza doesn’t understand beyond the fact that her son is hurting and she can’t do anything.

It feels like hours, but in reality lasts less than two minutes. The doctor turns to them and she can’t keep the fear out of her voice. “What was that?”

“It was a seizure, wasn’t it?” Alexander breaks in.

“It was a seizure,” the doctor confirms. “It appears to be a febrile seizure. They’re most common in children, but they can occur in adults. They’re caused by fever, and usually are triggered by rapid temperature change. The seizure itself isn’t something to worry about. But,” she continues, crushing Eliza’s hopes, “It does mean that his temperature has spiked very rapidly.”

“Why?” Alexander asks.

“He’s been running a very mild fever since he came in, as a result of the infection, just below a hundred degrees,” she says. “In the last hour, that spiked to 102. What that tells us is that the antibiotics haven’t gotten rid of the infection, and his body is trying to fight it.”

“That’s not bad, though,” Alexander says.

“Ordinarily, no,” the doctor says. “But his body simply isn’t strong enough to withstand a high fever. We’re switching to a stronger antibiotic and something that is meant to reduce his fever. If it works, it should help him fight off the infection. But I can’t stress enough,” she looks at Eliza briefly, then longer at Alexander, “We’ve been very, very lucky so far. I can’t guarantee this will help.”

“We understand,” Eliza says, a little numb. She hates that she’s allowed herself to hope, and now it’s falling apart again. She hates looking at the illuminated phone screen and knowing she has to lie if she doesn’t want to tell her children that their brother is dying.

“I’ll be back soon to check in,” the doctor says, and goes, and Eliza moves to the bedside and rearranges the sheets again. There is a faint sheen of sweat on Philip’s face; she can feel the unnatural heat rising off his skin when she cups his face with her hand.

“Hang in there, baby,” she whispers. Her phone starts ringing and she glances at it; it’s Angelica.

“Can you get that?” she asks, and Alexander picks it up.

“Angelica?” he says, and he sounds so tired, and then he is silent for a long moment.

Eliza is turning back to Philip when he speaks again.

“Sorry—Angie did _what?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are actually the best. I live for these comments; this fandom is so precious and perfect and writing this story is just an unbelievable experience because of you all.
> 
> Chapter notes, briefly: the hardest things to write are Twitter conversations, I swear. By all counts, Burr was a fantastic speechwriter, although much less long-winded than Hamilton and less inclined to fight everyone. He's got a plan, guys. Medical knowledge limited to internet and Wikipedia--I'm a politics and economics student.
> 
> SPEAKING OF WHICH, it's end of term and I've got final exams, and also need to do some research and planning for this next chapter, so I won't be sticking to the typical every-other-day posting schedule I've got. Expect the next chapter Thursday night/Friday morning--however, I will be around to chat if you have any questions/comments/suggestions/strong words about what I've done to your feelings, and I would love to hear it, so please please leave comments. Love you all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a sharp turn for the worse, and Eliza and Alexander brace themselves for the storm.

Eliza turns back around when she hears it, stepping away from the bed to get closer to Alexander. He’s standing turned away from her, so she can’t read his expression, but there is no mistaking the utter shock in his voice.

“Jesus, you’re serious,” Alexander says, and then he goes quiet for a while as Angelica speaks. Eliza has no idea what’s going on and her mind is flying all sorts of places—is something wrong with the children? With Angelica’s husband? What could have gone wrong?

Maybe one of the kids acted out at school. Not John, she doesn’t think—he’s always been a little bit quieter than his brothers. Alex Jr. or James, maybe, they’ve both gotten into arguments before, but she can’t imagine anything bad enough to get Angelica to call them. Did someone say something about Alexander, or Philip? She can imagine Alex punching someone if they got him angry enough.

Maybe William or Lizzy had a problem at daycare. Maybe—she can’t stand the wild speculation and stands still, tapping her foot anxiously. Alexander glances at her with wide eyes. “I’m going to give the phone to Eliza,” he says. “I don’t—really know how to explain this.”

“Angelica,” she says, accepting her cell. “What is it?”

“Okay, so,” Angelica says, “Don’t panic. So this morning, I talked to the kids and told them they didn’t have to go to school if they didn’t want.”

“Okay,” Eliza says, “That’s fine, that’s good, but—“

“Betsy,” her sister says, using her old nickname, “Let me finish. And breathe.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” Angelica says. “The boys decided to go to school. I think they wanted a distraction. Angie wanted to stay home. I dropped them all off, and Will and Eliza at daycare, and went into work for a few hours. I got a call from the police a while later, and they said that Angie was in the station.”

“God,” Eliza says, “Why?”

“I went to the station, and they said that Angie had been wandering around outside. She’d walked into the road—she’s fine, no one hit her—and seemed a little disoriented, so someone called 911 and they brought her back.”

“Is she okay?” Eliza demands. “What happened?”

“That’s the thing,” says Angelica. “I don’t know. She didn’t remember leaving the house—she was in bed when I left, and she hadn’t gotten changed, she hadn’t changed for bed either and she was still wearing her clothes from yesterday. She gave them the home phone first, though—she thought you would be there.”

“What?” Eliza can’t comprehend this.

“Eliza, she’s—a little out of touch with reality. I thought, the police thought, that maybe she slipped and hit her head, so I called the doctor,” Angelica says. “And they were pretty concerned about it, so they got her in right away. And they looked at her and couldn’t find anything, and so they did an MRI.”

“And?” Eliza asks.

“Betsy,” Angelica says. “Physically, her brain looks fine. No sign that she was injured. They’re running blood tests, but they also referred us to a psychiatrist. And—Angie keeps asking for you. She thinks you and Alexander are at work. I asked, she—she thinks Philip’s studying at Columbia still. She doesn’t remember that he was shot.”

Eliza goes silent and then she hears something muffled on the other end of the line.

“The doctor’s back—Eliza, I have to go, I’ll call again if anything happens. I love you.”

“Love you,” she says, a little numbly, and the line goes dead and she sets the phone down, slowly.

Alexander is looking at her. She looks back, silent, and the only sound in the room is the heart monitor.

“God,” Eliza closes her eyes and forces herself to breath before opening them again. This feels like a nightmare. She’s felt like that since the line at the grocery store, when she picked up the phone and got the first hint that something was wrong. All she wants to do is wake up, but she can’t. This, she realizes, is her life now.

Alexander, for the first time since this has all started, looks completely shaken. She’s seen flashes before—when Aaron Burr had to make that call instead of her husband, when he came into the room to see Philip seizing—but the stubborn expression has always reemerged, with the quiet insistence that everything will be fine. Now, he says nothing for a long moment, which is more telling than anything else.

He rallies after another moment. “Alright. We need to—we can’t leave Philip, but Angie needs us.” He starts pacing. “One of us stays here, the other one goes home.”

“Okay,” Eliza takes another breath. She can get behind that plan. “Who stays and who goes?”

That is the hard part to decide, of course, because both options are equally unthinkable. Fail to return to her daughter when she needs them more than ever, when she is clearly shattering? It would be the worst form of abandonment, and she is already kicking herself for failing to worry when she hadn’t heard from her daughter before now. Every other child with a phone had sent her strings of texts—Angie hadn’t, and she hadn’t noticed.

At the same time, she can see her son’s still form out of the corner of her eye, and knows she can’t leave Philip either. Her son is clinging to life—what kind of mother would she be if she left him here, to the cold beeping of the machines and bloodied bandages.

Alexander is still pacing, turning over the same options in his mind, and she thinks he must be coming up with the same non-solutions that she is. Incapable of staying still, she walks back to the bed. Philip still sleeps, his skin too hot, still feverish. His long dark hair has tangled and knotted by now, and she takes a lock in her fingers and begins the futile task of untangling it. She needs a comb to do it properly, she has one in her purse but now that she is standing by him she can’t make herself go to the bag to get it.

“Okay,” Alexander says, and she looks back at him. He has crossed the room at least ten times by now, back and forth. “I’ll stay here. You go home to Angie.”

“But—“ she objects, and he cuts her off.

“It makes the most sense.” She waits for him to explain, looking back at Philip, and he presses on. “First, Angie trusts you more. Don’t,” Alexander forestalls her objection. “She loves me, I love her, but when she wants to confide in one of us she always picks you.”

“Okay,” Eliza concedes that. Angie is intelligent and beautiful and caring, but she is not a force of nature in the same way that Alexander and Angelica and Philip are—her temperament has always been closer to her mother’s than her father’s or aunt’s.

“Also,” Alexander is now counting the reasons off on his fingers, “Unfortunately, my movements tend to be news. If I’m back in Washington, people will know, people will start to wonder what’s going on, that’s the last thing that Angie needs. Not that you’re not important, but—“

“But half the nation doesn’t follow my Twitter feed,” she replies. “I understand.”

“And Philip will understand,” he says, and his eyes soften when he looks at her. He has hit on her biggest fear—that her son won’t forgive her for leaving him. “There is—God help us—there’s nothing we can do for him. If you go to Angie, maybe you can help her, and Philip will understand that.”

It’s true, all of it is true, and Eliza doesn’t have a single reason to disagree except—

“And if,” she swallows, feeling tears begin to prick at her eyes at the thought, but forcing herself to voice it anyway. “And if he dies, and I’m—not there?”

“He won’t die,” Alexander says, sharply. “He promised. Philip’s strong. He can fight this. When he wakes up, I’ll be here, and we’ll figure it out.”

“But what if he dies?” she repeats, because right now she can’t afford to nod and accept his convictions, as much as she’d like to. The stakes are too high for that kind of faith, because if he’s wrong…

There is a long silence between them where neither of them can look at each other. She stares at her son’s face until her vision blurs with tears. Alexander looks at the floor, as if there are answers hidden in the cold linoleum that will become apparent if he gazes long enough.

“If he dies,” Alexander says, softly, and he sounds pained to be saying it out loud, “I will be with him, and I will hold him until the end, and he will never have any reason to doubt that we both love him more than anything in the world.”

The tears that have welled up in her eyes spill over, and she presses a hand to her face and sobs. In a moment, she feels Alexander’s arms around her, and he pulls her close to him as she cries.

“It will be okay,” he says, but his voice breaks as he says it and Eliza can tell that neither of them believe it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Managed to STAY ALIVE through finals (haha see what I did there).
> 
> Okay but seriously, glad to be back. First off, many thanks to my beautiful wonderful new beta-reader celestialshimmer. The chapter after this one should be coming quick, considering the inherently boring nature of plane rides. This is the first chapter, I think, that only had one scene, but it was a long and important one. Next time, we check in with Angie in person, see how Twitter is looking, and catch up with Aaron Burr about his speech.
> 
> I’ve been doing research, but I’m a little nervous going into this with Angie and want to do so as accurately and sensitively as I can, so shoot me a message if you have personal experience and feel like I’m fucking it up. If you want to call me out in the comments section, go for it, but I’m also on Tumblr as catalists if you want to chat privately. We haven't really gotten into Angie's perspective yet, so I'd welcome any advice in advance--if there's something you feel like people always get wrong, tell me so I can avoid it.
> 
> As always, you guys are amazing, absolutely the best. Your wonderful comments encourage me to keep writing (and got me through finals!) and I’d love to keep hearing from you, so as usual: comments, critiques, questions, incoherent screaming, please leave it below.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza returns to DC. This is not really an improvement.

The earliest flight she can get back to DC doesn’t leave until very late in the evening, but when she begs over the phone, they tell her that it’s possible that she could exchange with another passenger. It’s in the airport, when people are looking at her funny, that she remembers she hasn’t showered or changed clothes in almost two days. She realizes she hasn’t eaten in about the same time, so she buys a sandwich from the duty-free before explaining herself to everyone at the ticket counter.

The first man looks vaguely bored and disinclined to help, and she starts getting desperate. The other woman, however, seems more initially sympathetic, and when Eliza starts tearing up when she mentions her daughter is in the hospital, the attendant makes an announcement, asking if anyone would be willing to take a later flight to DC in exchange for some kind of voucher.

She slumps in a nearby chair and picks at the sandwich, checking her phone compulsively. Nothing from Angelica or Alexander—the longer she waits, the more the airport starts to feel like some kind of purgatory, although she’s just passing from one hell to another. She realizes, with a start, that she is not really thinking of New York and DC as two cities, but as the Place Where Her Son is Dying and the Place Where Her Daughter is Having a Mental Breakdown.

A young woman in a dark pantsuit comes up to the desk. She’s returning from a business trip, and she hesitantly says she might be able to exchange tickets, and the attendant indicates Eliza. They exchange one look, and the woman agrees. Eliza thanks her repeatedly, and goes to the bathroom to splash water on her face before the flight.

She really does look terrible—there are dark circles under her eyes, her hair is a mess, her clothes have a rumpled, slept-in look. She washes her face and brushes her hair and goes and gets on a plane, because that’s the only thing to do anymore.

Before she does, though, she texts Alexander to ask him when he ate last.

He views the text but doesn’t respond for a good fifteen minutes, and then sends a picture of a cafeteria sandwich right before the plane takes off and she has to turn off her phone.

\---

@HuffPost  
Eliza Hamilton spotted back in DC—is she separating from her husband? http://bit.ly/s3h78

@thomasjeff  
@HuffPost okay are y’all just a tabloid now?

@genlafayette  
@HuffPost The Hamilton family happens to live in DC.

@NYTimes  
Senate prepares for debate on @adotham’s gun control bill http://bit.ly/j67nf

@thomasjeff  
@NYTimes @adotham isn’t even a senator, he can’t actually sponsor a bill

@aaronburrsir  
@thomasjeff I think you’ll find he’s done a fine job despite that limitation.

@thomasjeff  
@aaronburrsir Heard you’re actually speaking in the Senate tomorrow

@thomasjeff  
@aaronburrsir Is it your first time?

@aaronburrsir  
@thomasjeff The third.

@thomasjeff  
@aaronburrsir how the fuck did you even get elected? #politicalmysteries

@aaronburrsir  
@thomasjeff I speak when I have something to say

@HuffPost  
SoS launches scathing Twitter attack on New York Senator Aaron Burr http://bit.ly/bwer3j

@aaronburrsir  
@HuffPost @thomasjeff I don’t feel scathed.

@thomasjeff  
@aaronburrsir @HuffPost that answers my earlier question

\---

By the time the plane lands, it’s late afternoon. She’d planned to shower and go straight to the hospital, but she gets assaulted by children as soon as she walks in the door.

John is lying on the floor of the living room doing homework, and when she drops her purse on the coffee table he looks up and then springs to his feet. “Mom!” He hugs her, and his shout is apparently some sort of homing beacon, because she hears footsteps and Alex Jr. appears in the doorway, followed shortly by James hurtling down the stairs. William comes running in from the kitchen, and then there are footsteps behind her and Adrienne de Lafayette appears, carrying her youngest daughter.

“Eliza,” she greets. “Angelica called me and asked if I would mind keeping an eye on them for the day.”

Clearly, she hadn’t minded, and Eliza assumes she still doesn’t judging by Adrienne’s smile. Eliza has seen her fair share of children—okay, more than her fair share—through the terrible twos, but for some reason her daughter is remarkably calm despite her age. William is old enough to have mostly outgrown the tantrums, and the three other boys are mature enough to behave themselves most of the time, so she isn’t surprised that the experience has been relatively pleasant. It lessens the guilt of calling in all her and her husband’s friends to watch their children on such short notice.

“I have missed having little ones,” Adrienne says. Her accent is much thicker than her husband’s is now, although Alexander swears that Lafayette’s English has improved dramatically since their first meeting.

Alex Jr. and James come over to hug her as well, and William latches onto her leg. Lizzy regards her for a moment and then turns back to Adrienne instead, which is a bit of a relief because Eliza’s hands are full with her boys and she doesn’t know what she would do with an armful of child.

“Thank you,” Eliza says, gratefully. “I need to go to the hospital—if you wouldn’t mind—“

“I will stay,” Adrienne assures her. “I only have two at home now, and they can all take care of themselves.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, and attempts to extricate herself, but the boys follow.

“I need to shower,” she tells them. “And I need to go to the hospital, I’m so sorry, I’ve missed you all so much.” She is abruptly struck by the guilt from that—she’s been so busy worrying about Philip and Angie that she hasn’t spared much of a thought for how the boys are coping.

“Mommy,” William says, and raises his arms to be picked up.

“You’re too big for this,” she reproaches, but picks him up anyway and gives him a long hug. “Now go back to Adrienne, okay? And be good for Mommy.”

He leaves, and she turns to the other three boys.

“Okay, Mom,” Alex says. “What’s going on?”

She surveys their faces. Alex is old enough to know what is happening. Honestly, she ought to have told him before now, but she hasn’t had the time or energy. James, too, probably—thirteen is good enough. John is only nine, but she can’t think of a good way to get him out of the room at this point.

“You already know part of it,” she says. “You know Philip was shot. It was a man from the law school. He and Philip argued in class, Philip—you know Philip. This man—he confronted Philip outside later and demanded an apology, Philip refused, and he—he pulled out a gun and shot him.”

“Is Philip gonna be okay?” asks John, all wide-eyed innocence. Alex Jr. winces.

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she says. “But he’s in the hospital and the doctors are taking good care of him, and your Daddy’s with him.”

“Okay,” John nods. “Where is Angie?”

“Angie’s gone to see the doctor,” she shoots Alex a look that tells him he’s going to have to wait until later for a better explanation. “She’s not feeling well, so they’re going to see if they can make her feel better.”

“Okay.” This is good enough for John, thank god, and he hops up. “When will Daddy be home?”

“I don’t know,” Eliza says. “I’ll tell you as soon as I do, okay?”

She thinks, as she says it, when Philip dies. Her husband will come home with her son’s body.

“Okay,” says James, and takes John’s hand. He then shoots Alex a significant look that Eliza doesn’t fail to miss. “We’re gonna go help Aunt Adrienne with dinner.”

When they’re gone, Alex looks at her. “Is Philip going to die?”

Eliza lets out a shaky breath. “Oh, honey.” She can’t lie to him, it hurts too much. “It doesn’t look good.”

Alex looks less like his father than Philip does, but in that moment when he tightens his jaw and nods sharply, she sees Alexander all over him. “Okay,” he says. “What happened with Angie?”

“That, I really don’t know,” Eliza says. “We’re trying to find out. That’s why I need to get to the hospital.”

“Okay.” Alex Jr. starts to go, and then turns back and hugs her again. “I love you, Mom.”

“Love you too,” she says, and he goes too, following his brothers.

The hot water of the shower feels good, even though she mostly just stands there and cries.

\---

She still looks exhausted afterwards, but she’s wearing clean clothes and her hair doesn’t look like mammals are residing in it, so she counts it as a slight improvement. She dresses nicely, because she is going to an unfamiliar psychiatrist’s office and there are a few surefire ways to get people to respect you quickly and appearing professional is one of them.

When she arrives, she doesn’t see Angelica in the waiting room, so she goes up to the desk. “My name is Eliza Hamilton,” she says. “My daughter, Angelica, is here. Her aunt—my sister—is with her. Can you show me to them, please?”

The receptionist, to her credit, doesn’t even blink. “Can I see your ID?”

She hands it over, and is given an office number. She knocks once when she gets to it, and then opens it anyway.

“Mom!” Angie says, and springs up from the couch. Angelica gives her a smile, but it looks forced.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” the psychiatrist says, “I assume? I’m Dr. Lang.”

“Yes,” she sits down. “I don’t want to interrupt.” It’s the sort of statement that means, go on, but also tell me what the hell is going on.

The psychiatrist looks at her for a moment and turns back to Angie. “Can you walk me through your day, again?”

“I walked downtown,” she says. “I was going to take the metro to DuPont. It was so nice though. There was a day last summer that was so warm, Philip and I went kayaking on the river. Alex always wants to get in on everything we do. I think it’s okay to lie, then.”

“Angelica,” the psychiatrist says, “What about today?”

Her brow furrows. “I said—downtown. And a police officer stopped me and asked if I was alright. He told me to come with him. Dad wouldn’t have, but Mom always says to stay calm, so I did. Then Mom wasn’t home for some reason, so I had them call Aunt Angelica.”

“Did you do anything before that?” the psychiatrist asks. “It’s okay if you can’t remember.”

“I had a weird dream,” she says, after a moment of thought.

“What happened in it?”

“Aunt Angelica woke me up, but said I could stay home from school. Something was wrong, but I don’t remember what. I was really worried, but then I realized it was a dream.”

“How did you know it was a dream?” the psychiatrist asks. His perfect calm is a sharp contrast to the sudden chill that has run down Eliza’s spine at her daughter’s words.

Angie scowls. “It just—felt like one. You know, like it wasn’t real. All disjointed and sh—stuff.” She corrects herself, shooting a glance at her mother.

“Okay,” the man says. “I’m going to step outside for a minute and talk with your mother, okay?”

“Okay.” She kicks her heels against the side of the couch, and Eliza rests a hand on her arm for a moment in a gesture of comfort before following the doctor outside.

“What’s wrong with her?” she demands, as soon as the office door is shut.

“She’s dissociating,” says Dr. Lang. “That much is clear. Your sister—Miss Schuyler-Church?” 

At Eliza’s nod, he continues. “She mentioned that your family has recently experienced a tragedy.”

“My oldest son,” she says. “He was shot.”

“That’s an extreme stressor,” Dr. Lang says. “I’d guess that it triggered this. She’s demonstrating some other symptoms as well—her speech patterns are sometimes incoherent. This is a demonstration of psychosis.”

“What?” Eliza says.

“All that means is that she’s demonstrating a loss of contact with reality,” he says. “I don’t know to what extent, how this is really manifesting, or what it’s linked to, although it seems likely that the recent trauma was a trigger.”

“What can you do, then? Can you help her?”

“I hope so, yes,” he says. “We have an inpatient ward—I’d like her to stay with us temporarily, to observe her behavior and talk more with her. We’re still running a few other tests to rule out physical conditions, but there’s no evidence of physical trauma and her blood tests are coming back normal, both of which indicate this is more likely to be a psychological condition. Having her stay with us will let us rule out some possibilities.”

“Okay,” Eliza says. It isn’t, but if she says it enough, perhaps it will make it true.

“Great,” he says. “Would you like to speak with her about it, or would you like me to?”  
She’s tempted, for a moment, to pass the job off onto him, but she shakes her head. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll be back shortly.”

She walks back instead. “Angie, sweetie,” she says, suddenly exhausted.

“Hi Mom,” Angie says.

“Angie, how would you feel about staying here for now?”

“Why?” she demands. “I’m fine.”

“Honey,” she says, and is relieved to hit upon something she thinks Angie has noticed. “I think there’s something wrong. That’s why Aunt Angelica brought you here in the first place.”

“But what’s wrong? I’m fine,” Angie insists.

“I don’t know,” Eliza says, “But just now, when you were trying to tell us about your day, I was having a little bit of trouble following you. Did you see that?”

“Yes,” Angie says, and frustration creeps into her voice. “I just couldn’t get it straight in words, it made sense—“

“That’s why I think you should stay over,” Eliza says. “They might be able to figure out why that’s happening.”

Angie sighs. “Fine. Just one night, though? I don’t want to sit around here forever. I have school.”

“Yes,” Eliza agrees, and then hesitates. “Although we need to listen to the doctor, okay? You might have to stay longer if there’s something seriously wrong.”

“Okay.” Angie nods, a little dismissive. “Where’s Dad?”

“New York,” Eliza says. She doesn’t want to fight with Angie about what’s real, but it feels wrong to lie to her. “He’s with Philip.”

“Philip’s his favorite,” Angie says, and rolls her eyes. “It’s so obvious.”

“Your Dad doesn’t have favorites,” Eliza protests. “We love you all the same.”

“You guys love us all the same,” Angie agrees, “But he likes Philip more.”

Eliza smiles, a little strained. “Take it up with him when he comes home.” She worries that by that time, it won’t matter who was loved or liked best, not when their son is dead and buried, but she can’t say that to Angie.

She wishes she were with Philip. She wishes she knew what to do for Angie.

Most of all, she wishes she was with Alexander. Angelica is looking at her from the other side of her daughter, eyes worried, and she knows that her sister would do anything for her. She thinks of her other children, of Adrienne babysitting, all of their friends offering support. She thinks of Aaron Burr’s offer to Alexander.

They are, by all accounts, surrounded by a network of people who care about them and want to help them. But sitting here, speaking to her daughter as though through a window into a parallel world, she has never felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a huge thank you to my betareader celestialshimmer for editing this actual monstrosity of a chapter, and to starfireone3 for a ton of incredible research help. In case you can’t tell, Eliza tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Hi, I need an entire chapter, thank you,” and then that chapter ended up being twice as long as the rest of them.
> 
> This means we didn’t really get to Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton, although we did see Burr and Thomas Jefferson chat on Twitter. In case you can’t tell, I have like zero respect for the Huffington Post, and I’m going to continue to drag them. I mean, they’re not as trashy as like, Buzzfeed, but Buzzfeed has never pretended to be real news.
> 
> Okay, so next chapter is going to be pretty much all Alexander and Philip and Aaron. It will also features parts of Aaron Burr’s speech and the return of text messaging. Probably. Unless something else gets out of control. Which is totally possible.
> 
> Thoughts, suggestions, ideas, critiques, anguished noises—please leave them in the comments, I live for the feedback.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander Hamilton is not a stranger to pain and fear, but that doesn't make this any easier.

It is quiet for some time after Eliza leaves. The nurses come in and out occasionally and check Philip’s vitals and temperature, consult the chart and IV, but his son still sleeps and there’s no real change. Alexander sits on the hard plastic chair and calls Aaron Burr, staring at the heart monitor. It’s a good reminder of why it is so desperately important that this speech goes well tomorrow.

“Hello?” says Burr, after three rings.

“Aaron Burr,” Alexander says, unnecessarily because he knows who he called and Burr knows who he is, but he’s never quite gotten out of the habit of his friend’s full name.

“Alexander,” says Burr. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he says. “Let’s talk about your speech.”

“Okay,” Burr agrees.

“I think it’s important to touch on the failure to respond to mass shootings,” Alexander says. “I mean, you look at other nations and the lack of response is completely appalling. Australia instituted sweeping reforms after one, and yet someone shoots up an elementary school and we don’t do anything.”

“Okay,” says Burr.

That surprises Alexander a little. “Okay?”

“Okay, you’re right. It’s important to bring up the fact that we’ve failed to respond legislatively to events that clearly demand a legislative response,” Burr says, reasonably. “But I’m not going to say it that way. I don’t want to alienate people who might support us.”

“So, what, you point out that they’ve fucked up and so they’d rather keep fucking up?” Alexander says, sharply. “If they’ve been holding us back in gun control for this long, fuck them. We don’t need to be nice to our enemies.”

“They’re not necessarily our enemies,” Burr says. Alexander is opening his mouth to reply when Burr anticipates it and heads him off. “I know why you’re angry. You are right to be angry with them.” He hesitates. “So am I. But anger will not get us votes. Anger will not get this bill through.”

“I know,” Alexander says, with a sigh. He is silent for a moment and watches the jagged line on the heart monitor. “I don’t understand how they can stand to the side when it’s this important. Burr, they are killing our children.” Anguish seeps into his voice just a little, and he knows Burr can hear it.

“I will do everything I can to make them listen,” says Burr. He pauses. “I will make them listen.”

“Send me the new version,” he says. “I want to read it.”

“I will,” Burr says. “How is Philip?”

“Alive,” Alexander says, and he can’t take his eyes off the machine that confirms it. “He’s—he’s fighting.”

“Alexander,” Burr says. “Stay with him. I can do this.”

“Send me the speech,” he says.

“I will.”

Alexander hangs up and doesn’t move for a long while.

\---

Aaron Burr hangs up and stares at his phone. The most worrying thing is that he has just gotten through a conversation with Alexander Hamilton, about politics no less, without an earthshaking argument. He has the strong sense that picking a fight was at least part of the reason the man had called in the first place, but then didn’t seem to have the energy to go through with it.

He pulls up the document with the speech and scans through it. It isn’t hard to add a handful of lines about the past failures of the government to make legislative responses as a result of disaster. He avoids outright accusation: there’s nothing like suggesting that people are responsible for the murder of elementary school children to get them to hate you.

Aaron Burr doesn’t want anyone to hate him. He realizes that this is a difficult goal for a politician, but he’s managed quite well so far, and he intends to continue. Alexander Hamilton doesn’t care how anyone else feels about him. He’s prepared to defend his beliefs come hell or high water, no matter if it means alienating everyone else involved in the government.

It’s admirable, in a fish-climbing-trees sort of way.

Aaron Burr can’t afford to have anyone hate him, though. Not only does his senate seat depend on his reputation as moderate about everything, passing the bill is going to require some degree of bipartisan support.

So Aaron Burr isn’t looking to sling accusations or assign blame, and he doesn’t want to induce guilt or anger. He wants to try for empathy.

For the sake of them all, he hopes it works.

\---

The doctor comes in again that morning, twice more that afternoon. Alexander leaves the room only a handful of times, once to get a sandwich in response to a text from Eliza, once to use the bathroom. He washes his face at the sink and makes a point not to look at his reflection. He does not want to know how he looks, does not care. 

The doctor comes in again in the early evening and spends longer in the room, looking at the readings, noting things on the chart. It is four or five, maybe later, and her expression is grim.

“How is he?” Alexander demands. “Is he getting better?”

“No,” she says. He appreciates the honesty, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “I would be expecting to see a change by now, with the new antibiotics and the fever reducers, but the infection isn’t going away yet. Antibiotics don’t work instantly, so that’s not too surprising, but his fever hasn’t dropped at all. That worries me.”

“What happens if it doesn’t go down?” he asks, against his better judgment.

“He won’t be able to survive it,” she says. “His body is not strong enough right now to sustain itself under those conditions.”

He nods; his mouth feels dry, and he feels the urge to do something, but there is nothing to do. Nothing to do that matters, anyway. Nothing matters in comparison to this, and he is entirely helpless to do anything but sit and wait. He only leaves the room again once more, to get a bottle of water from the vending machine down the hall, and then he pulls one of the plastic chairs up next to the bed and sits with Philip as the evening wears on. Philip mostly sleeps fitfully, waking occasionally.

Their conversations when he is conscious are not scintillating—Philip usually acknowledges him, fails to form understandable sentences, and then drifts off again. Sometime around nine, he wakes and glances around.

“Was mom here?” he asks, faintly.

“She was,” Alexander says.

“Okay,” Philip says, and then goes back to sleep.

He is almost dozing off himself when the beeping from the machines changes and he is jerked into total wakefulness. Philip’s heartbeat has grown less steady, and as Alexander watches he begins seizing again.

Before he can shout for someone, the doctor is in the room, and she gives instructions to a nurse that Alexander doesn’t understand, and checks Philip’s wound when he stills.

“What’s going on?” Alexander demands.

“His fever is worse,” she says. “A hundred and three degrees and climbing. His heart is growing weaker as a result. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing else that we can do besides hope that our attempts at fighting the infection start working.”

“You’re saying that…” he doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But unless something changes, I don’t think we can save him.” He can tell that she means it, that she really is sorry, but all he can do is stare at her. “I’ll come back soon.”

She goes. He fumbles for his phone and stares at it for a long time. Eliza hasn’t said anything—that could mean anything, that her phone is dead, that she’s busy, that she has nothing that she feels that she has to pass on to him. He’s torn between telling her and not telling her. Anything he sends can do nothing but break her heart, but it feels like some sort of lying to not update her on the condition of her son.

He sets the phone down, and starts to stand up and go to the bed, but it buzzes again and he looks.

 _Tell him I love him_ , Eliza has written.

He leaves it on the chair by the wall and sits instead on the edge of Philip’s bed. Philip’s sleep is uneasy, his hair badly knotted and sticking to his neck. Alexander reaches out and gently combs his fingers through the tangles, feeling the terrible heat off his son’s skin.

“Your mom loves you,” he says, softly. “But you already know that.”

Philip shifts closer to him and blinks, eyes heavy. “Dad?”

“I’m here,” he says, catching Philip’s hand as he reaches out and entwining their fingers. “I’m right here.”

“It’s so cold,” Philip says, hazily. “Why is it so cold?”

The room is cool, but not cold, and the bed itself is hot—Philip is practically burning up. But far from feeling the heat, Alexander realizes, the fever has left his son shivering. When Philip shifts again, pressing close to his father, he gathers him into his arms and pulls him close.

Philip relaxes against him, and Alexander can feel the rise and fall of his chest with every ragged breath. “Dad?”

“I’m here,” he says, again, because that’s the only reassurance that’s within his power to offer.

“It hurts,” Philip half-whispers, half-whimpers.

“I know,” he says, feeling tears sting his eyes. He can feel his son trembling with fever and pain and there’s nothing he can do but hold him. “I know.”

“I’ve tried—so hard, to do what you said,” Philip says, and Alexander momentarily doesn’t understand until he remembers the promise he’d extracted from him—had that really been only twenty-four hours ago? It feels like he’s spent a lifetime in this room, a lifetime hating the beeping of the machines but hating the alternative all the more, wishing that he could turn back time and stop this man from hurting his son and knowing that all he can do is wait out the storm.

It might be over soon, he knows, but he’s not sure he’ll be able to live with what’s left.

“I know,” he says, again. “You did everything just right.”

“I’m so tired,” Philip says, so softly that it’s more of an exhale than words.

“Sleep now,” Alexander tells him, and he doesn’t think he has every felt so much love for another person or been so terribly afraid of what is coming. Philip’s eyes close, and in minutes he is limp in Alexander’s arms. He can feel every heartbeat, every pained breath.

He thinks, he’s too warm.

He thinks, I wish Eliza were here.

He thinks, oh God, please don’t make this the last time I hold my son.

Alexander takes Philip’s wrist in his hand and rests two fingers on it, feeling his uneven, thready pulse and thinks, please God, do not take my son, do not, do not, and when he falls asleep he dreams of the jagged rhythm of his son’s heart and the words of his own silent prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pretty intense chapter to write, and I'm hoping you all enjoy it. Next time we may actually hear the content of Aaron Burr's speech and check back in with Twitter, and possibly the rest of the Hamilton family.
> 
> Oh, and find out Philip's fate. Can't forget that.
> 
> As always, many thanks to my amazing beta-reader celestialshimmer, for all their wonderful editing and being the recipient of strings of all-caps messages in the middle of the night about all my feelings. (They also edited another story for me this week, a one-shot about Lafayette and Washington that I posted this morning, so go check that out if you're interested.) Basically, they are a gift, and they have promised not to kill me in a duel even if I do knock on their proverbial door in the middle of the night.
> 
> And, of course, thank you to all of you for your continued comments and responses. It means so much to me to hear what you think, so please please keep leaving comments/questions/criticisms/anything. Even if I don't reply--which I usually don't unless there's a question to answer--rest assured I read them all about ten times.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning always comes.

Angelica stays over that night, and she and Eliza sit on the bed and talk like they used to when they were children. It’s a much bigger bed—Eliza can sprawl across it and Angelica still has room to sit comfortably, unlike those years ago when she would jam herself in next to her sister, all elbows and knees.

The other main difference, besides the fact that they have more space, is that she has never felt this devastated.

“I don’t know why all this is happening,” Eliza says, hollowly. “Everything was fine on Monday. It was so normal. Everything was so normal.” She shakes her head. “I was grocery shopping. I never actually bought groceries. Is there even any food in the house?”

Angelica looks a bit sheepish. “Not really,” she admits. “You still have peanut butter and jelly, and I picked up more bread, so I fed them that for lunch. And they had pizza for dinner last night. I don’t know what Adrienne fed them, I didn’t think to ask.”

“I didn’t either,” Eliza says. “I have no idea how my own children are doing. I haven’t told them what’s happening with Angie because I don’t even understand. I’m a terrible mother,” the last part comes out a bit choked, as she forces herself not to sob. She curls in on herself a bit, and then she feels Angelica’s arms around her.

“You’re an amazing mother,” her sister says. “Everything bad that is happening right now, is not your fault, and you are doing everything that you can.”

“I’m not,” Eliza says, feeling the tears start to run down her face. “I’m letting Angie stay overnight there because I have no idea what to do otherwise. I don’t know if I’m making the right decision or doing what’s best for her. I want her to have control over this as well, but I don’t know if she’d do what’s best for her. And if neither of us know what to do, where does that leave us? And so I’m here, and I’m not doing anything for her, and I don’t even know what to say to Alex and James and John, and I’ve barely seen William and Eliza in two days, and I’m not with Philip—“ she gives up on speaking and just sobs as Angelica hugs her.

“You are doing the best you can,” Angelica tells her. “And I am here for you, whatever you need. And so are Lafayette and Adrienne, and—I actually ran into Aaron Burr today, and he offered to help as well, so I don’t know what you want to do with that.”

Eliza wipes at her eyes and sniffles. “Aaron Burr offered to…watch the kids?”

“Yes,” Angelica says. “You’ve got a lot of people on your side, love.”

“Okay,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Okay. I can do this. We can make it through this.”

Then her phone buzzes on the nightstand, and she picks it up. A text from Alexander that is only her name.

“Oh, god,” she whispers.

\---

She wakes up at four in the morning, trembling from a nightmare. She’s had a series of them that night, most of which she doesn’t remember except for the feeling they gave her, but this one is fresh in her memory as she blinks, gasping, in the darkened bedroom.

Her dream starts out like a memory; it is nearly a decade ago, she is pregnant with John, and it is midsummer. All the curtains in the room are open, and a shaft of light falls across the top of the piano, filled with dancing dust motes. Her fingers rest on the keys, the ivory cool beneath her fingers, and she counts in French as she plays a scale. Philip of a decade ago sits beside her, his feet not reaching the ground but instead kicking back and forth in the air.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,” she says, and Philip mimics her perfectly, playing the scale and repeating the words, his eyes on her rather than the keys.

“Good,” she says, brightly, and starts to play the next scale, but Philip doesn’t repeat this one, and when she turns to look at him they’re not in the piano room at all but the hospital, and she tries to count again, “Un, deux, trois,” but it’s heartbeats instead of notes that she’s counting off, and she reaches out for him and his hand is so cold and she has the idea that if she just keeps counting they won’t stop, but she reaches seven and his pulse stops and she tries to speak and restart it and no words come out of her mouth, she is trying to scream but nothing comes out, and she wakes up breathless.

Angelica is sitting up beside her as she tugs the sheets around her, shuddering. “Betsy?” she asks.

“I dreamed—“ she shakes her head. “It was just a dream. I dreamed that he—that Philip had died.”

She casts about for her phone; it sits on the nightstand, innocuous. She can feel her own heart beating hard in her chest as she hits the power button. It’s silly to think that her dream could mean anything, but she’s terrified that he’s died in this moment and she somehow knows it even without having gotten the call.

The screen lights up, and there’s nothing; no texts, no calls. She unlocks it just to be sure, and it’s the same string of texts from the night before, starting with Alexander’s _Eliza_ and ending with _Tell him I love him_.

That’s all.

Angelica’s looking at the screen as well, and rests her hand on her shoulder. “Just a dream,” she says. “You should try to sleep some more.”

Eliza makes sure the volume on the phone is all the way up before she replaces it on the nightstand and lets herself drift often again into an uneasy sleep.

\---

Alexander wakes with a stiff neck and the sense of someone's presence; when he opens his eyes, he sees the doctor whose name he has somehow never bothered to learn hovering near him.

"Sorry," she says, softly. "I was trying not to wake you up."

The night comes rushing back to him and he has a flood of memories in an instant--Philip's ragged breathing and the unnatural heat from his skin, the unsteadiness of the heart monitor, pulling Philip close as though he could somehow hold him tight enough to stop him from slipping away from them, and the knowledge that as terrible as the night had been, tomorrow could only be worse, because as wretched as his son's pain was it at least meant he was still with them.

He realizes three things, then. The first is that his neck aches because he's basically fallen asleep in a half-sitting position on the bed. He is getting old, he thinks. He’s slept in worse positions, much worse, many times before, and hasn’t felt like this.

The second is, he's actually a little cold now, his clothes damp with sweat but the heat that had caused it vanished. It feels like the air in the room has dropped a few degrees.

The third thing is, Philip is sleeping quietly in his arms. 

Alexander can't believe it immediately, and his hand slides to Philip's neck to check his pulse. It is steady; his skin is cool to the touch and pale, but not cold. He is breathing, steadier than the night before.

His son is alive. Somehow, Philip is still alive.

Alexander was raised to believe in God; he’s been praying, in some capacity, for most of his life. For the first time, he’s convinced that someone was listening.

"His fever broke around four AM," the doctor says. "The infection is going away, which means the antibiotics are working. We’ll need to keep him on them for another week to make sure it doesn’t return, but this is a good sign."

"Thank God," Alexander whispers, and means it. "Is he going to be alright?"

"His wound is healing," she says. "The infection is clearing up, his fever's broken. There's never a guarantee, but I would say he's stable." She smiles, briefly, and then adds, “It’s going to be a difficult recovery. He’s not going to be back to normal overnight.”

“But he’s going to be okay,” Alexander says. “He’s going to live.” He looks at her, waiting for her to confirm it; he’s spent so long trying to prepare himself for the worst that he finds it hard to believe.

“Yes,” she says. “From where we stand right now, he’s going to live.”

"Thank God," Alexander repeats.

She smiles again and starts to leave, and then adds, “You might want to look into finding somewhere to stay—you can’t keep sleeping here. It’s against hospital policy.”

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move, he can’t quite bring himself to let go of Philip. She sighs and leaves, but he doesn’t think she’s that annoyed.

It’s not much longer until Philip stirs, and blinks. “Hi, Dad,” he says, taking a moment to get his bearings. “Where—hospital. Shit.” His voice is fainter than usual, but it has regained his usual inflections.

“Yeah, shit,” Alexander says, but he can’t stop smiling.

“Yeah—ow,” Philip tries to move and grimaces. Alexander gently lowers him onto the pillow, disentangling himself as carefully as he can. He still can’t make himself look away, like it will all vanish if he blinks.

“Dad,” Philip says, after he’s recovered from the movement, “Why are you crying?”

Alexander touches a hand to his face, and is surprised to find it’s wet. “Oh. You scared me pretty badly last night. Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Not planning on it,” Philip says.

“Good. Because this,” he gestures at the room around them, “Is a bad plan.”

“This was not a plan,” Philip protests, and then winces again. He is silent for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside, and then says, “I really freaked out Mom, didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Alexander says. “Fuck. I need to call her.” He pulls out his phone and dials.

“Can I talk to her?” Philip asks.

He pauses for a second, and then holds out the phone. “Actually, that’s a great idea.”

\---

Eliza wakes up to her cell ringing on the bedside table. It’s later than she thought it would be, there is light coming in through the windows, and Angelica is gone. She picks it up and stares at the caller ID. Alexander.

For a moment, she can’t make herself do anything. Once she answers the phone, she’ll know for sure, and that’s it. There will be no going back.

She steels herself as best as she can; she will not cry, she promises herself. Whatever happens, she will not cry, not again, she will hold it together for Alexander. Then she presses the button and lifts the phone to her ear.

“Alexander?” she asks, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice.

“Nah,” Philip says. “Hi, Mom.”

Eliza starts crying.

“Mom, I’m really sorry,” he says. “I never meant for any of this to happen. But I’m fine, it’s going to be fine.”

She wants to laugh at the absurdity of her son trying to comfort her, when he has been shot, when she should be comforting him.

“Philip,” she says, trying to pull herself together and only partly succeeding. “Don’t apologize, baby, nobody’s mad. I am so, so glad you’re going to be okay.” She pauses for a second, briefly unsure. “Can I talk to your Dad for a sec?”

A pause, and then, “Hey,” Alexander’s voice is on the phone. “The infection’s going away—his fever broke this morning. Eliza, he’s going to be okay,” she can hear the pure relief in his words.

“God,” Eliza whispers, because whatever this nightmare is, she thinks she’s finally, finally starting to wake up.

“Philip’s falling asleep on me,” Alexander says, “So tell us quick, how’s everyone doing at home?”

Eliza’s heart sinks a little when she thinks about Angie, but she doesn’t want to say it in front of Philip. It might be wrong to hide it from him, but she doesn’t want him worrying about the rest of them, not when he’s still healing, not when he was so close to death only hours before. “Much better now,” she says, instead.

“Good,” Alexander says. “Okay, Philip is officially asleep again, which is apparently a side effect of being shot, recovering from near-fatal infections, and pain medication, all of which we’ve got right now. I’m apparently not allowed to sleep here on a regular basis, so I need to go find a hotel.”

“Okay,” Eliza says. “Angie stayed overnight at the psychiatric ward, so I need to go check in there.”

“Wait, what?” Alexander says.

“She was dissociating, yesterday, they said,” Eliza says, “So they wanted to keep her under observation. Also, she didn’t remember that Philip had been shot.”

“What? Why did you not tell me any of this?”

“I thought our son was dying! I thought it could wait,” she says. “I thought you should just—be with him.”

“Okay,” Alexander says, after brief consideration. “Fair. But text me, as soon as you find out anything else.”

“Okay,” she says. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says. “Also, Aaron Burr is speaking in the Senate in an hour and I need to call him.”

She has started smiling, but she isn’t sure when. “Go do that,” she says. “When you find a hotel, don’t forget to take a shower. Also, eat something.”

“I won’t forget,” he says. “Love you, bye.”

“Love you,” she says, and sets the phone down and sighs.

Some things, at least, are still normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to the amazing celestialshimmer, who not only proofread but convinced me I'd made the right decision with Philip by their reaction when I told them what I was planning to do, so thanks for that as well!
> 
> We...didn't really make it to Aaron Burr this chapter, or Angie, but that's okay, we'll get there eventually. Aaron Burr + politics (and Twitter) will have the next chapter, and we'll catch up with Angie maybe then or maybe one after.
> 
> Thank you, so much, for all your comments. I was blown away by the response to last chapter, it's so gratifying to hear from everyone. So please leave any comments/criticisms/questions/concerns/emotional reactions in the comments section, it seriously makes my day to read them.
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron Burr is having an exciting day.

Aaron Burr is probably not the most soft-spoken person in the Senate, but he is the Senator best-known for his relative silence. People would call him polite, even charming; he is mostly neutral, rarely an ally and never an enemy. In short, his behavior rarely bears comment—he retains the support of the state of New York by looking out for his constituents and never doing anything remarkable enough for anyone to say, “Maybe we should elect someone else.” He is not obstructive and not prolific, and that has always been good enough for him.

He is not particularly vain, either—he does not look himself up on the internet frequently, or scan newspapers for his name. Theodosia once convinced him to Google himself, and surprisingly little came up—campaign information, a brief Wikipedia article, a voting record if you were willing to dig a little. Some articles about him announced his election to the Senate and relatively little else. For a Senator, he is positively low-profile.

To be quite honest, Burr has always been fine with that. Fame is something he’s never sought, and he’s wanted notoriety even less. He’s well aware that most of his Twitter followers are a result of Hamilton occasionally tweeting at him—god only knows his feed isn’t nearly as interesting, considering he tends to be vague, rarely speaks publicly with other politicians, and has never called Abigail Adams a “repressed whore”.

He is aware that more articles have been written about him in the past week than ever before in his life. He is aware that for the first time in his career, he is doing something that has the whole world watching, that is bringing cameras and film crews into the Senate chamber that is making his constituents sit up and pay attention and try to remember who they voted for in the last election. 

Alexander Hamilton calls him that morning, and he hesitates for a moment before he steps out and picks up.

“Aaron Burr,” Hamilton says.

“Alexander,” Burr says. “How are you?”

“Good,” Hamilton says, and he sounds like he really means it. “Great, actually. Philip’s doing much better.”

Burr opens his mouth to say that he’s glad to hear it, but apparently Hamilton isn’t done talking.

“The infection’s mostly gone,” Alexander says. “He woke up this morning and we had an actual conversation. Not a very long one, but a real conversation. We called Eliza. Philip talked to her, too.” Burr can imagine the smile on Alexander’s face from his tone of voice.

“That’s—I’m so glad to hear it,” he says, sincerely. He’s spent half the past week wondering how he would handle it if something like this happened to his Theodosia. The idea is—unimaginable. That Alexander has stayed at all focused on the bill during this is a difficult concept, but then again, he has always handled stress by throwing himself deeper into his work. Then a detail catches his attention, and he remembers something that he’s been wondering about it. “Is Eliza back in DC?”

“Yes,” Alexander says.

“…I see,” Burr says, though he doesn’t. He doesn’t know Eliza as well as he does Alexander, but he is aware how much she loves her son. He can’t imagine what could have torn her away from him before they had any sort of certainty about his recovery.

“Something came up,” Hamilton says, and there’s a note of—something Burr can’t place, really—in his voice. “We can talk about it later. You’re speaking in—“ he hesitates.

“An hour,” Burr says. “Are you telling people how Philip is doing?”

“Only everyone in my contacts and my entire Twitter feed,” Alexander says, and Burr can hear the smile come back. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Burr says, and for the first time he is starting to feel a little nervous. Offering to give a speech over text, talking to Alexander about it, writing it, practicing it over and over as he paced back and forth in his office—none of it felt as real as standing here, right now, watching the minute hand on the clock.

“Okay,” Alexander says. “You’ll do great.”

“Okay?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but it does anyway.

“Really. This is going to be really good for you,” and Burr can tell he honestly means it. Of course, he and Hamilton have always had drastically different definitions of ‘really good’, but he appreciates the sentiment.

“Thanks,” Burr says.

“This is going to be really big,” Hamilton says. “History is going to remember this.”

“Oh, good,” Burr says, faintly. “Just what I always wanted.”

“I believe in you,” Hamilton says, and that’s pretty much the only part of this conversation that makes him feel in any way better about this.

“Thank you,” he says. “I should—“

“Get ready,” Hamilton says. “We’re going to change the world.”

And isn’t that a scary thought.

They hang up. He takes a deep breath. He reads over his notes. He starts to pace a little.

His phone vibrates in his pocket.

_you’re trending on Twitter_ , says Theodosia.

He stares at that for a minute, trying to decide how to respond, when she texts again.

_i’m proud of you_ , she says.

He stares at that for a minute longer. His daughter is proud of him. That, more than anything else, convinces him that he’s made the right decision.

When he walks out onto the Senate floor forty-five minutes later, he has never been more certain that he is doing the right thing.

\---

Alexander hasn’t touched his laptop in two days; he can’t remember the last time he’s gone this long without it. Eliza has joked—not entirely happily—that it’s turned into an extension of her husband. And yet, aside from slamming it shut and sliding it into his bag, he’s barely spared it a thought between that first phone call and speaking to Philip this morning.

Now, he pulls it out of the case and opens it, coaxes it to connect to the hotel’s crappy WiFi. Philip is likely to sleep some hours yet, and Burr is going to speak.

He may not be in DC, but he doesn’t intend to miss it.

The Senate stream is never the highest quality video, and the connection makes it even worse, but Burr is only slightly blurry on the screen as he steps up to the podium. He seems hesitant, and Alexander involuntarily clenches his hand into a fist. It’s uncomfortable to rely on someone else to speak about something he cares about, uncomfortable to be so distant from the proceedings, and Burr looks so uncertain.

And then he starts speaking.

“I got a phone call from our Secretary of the Treasury, Alexander Hamilton, this morning about his son Philip. Philip is nineteen years old and a student at Columbia University. He was shot two days ago, by an older student.

“This older student owned the gun he shot Philip with. He bought it legally. He bought it by submitting an application to the US government, one of about fifteen million such applications that the US government gets every year. No background check was conducted. No one even looked at his history to see what he might do with it. He bought this gun legally, and he owned it legally. In fact, everything he did up until the point that he shot Philip Hamilton was legal.

“He only fired one bullet, although his gun could hold twelve. That one bullet was enough. He shot Philip in the right side, and that one bullet went straight through him and buried itself in his left arm.”

Burr pauses, then, except he doesn’t look at all nervous anymore. The stream may be poor quality, but Alexander can hear him with total clarity. He suspects this might be because the room is almost entirely silent.

“I am very happy to be able to tell you that Alexander Hamilton called me this morning to tell me that Philip is going to survive. I am unhappy to tell you that there is nothing in place in this nation to stop this from happening again, to Philip or to anyone else.

“The man who shot Philip submitted an application legally. It was approved, and he bought his weapon. There were no background checks, no evaluations of any sort. His history of violent outbursts never came up, not through the whole process. No one noticed that he’d previously been arrested for violent assault in a fit of anger, although the victim never pressed charges. This is not a case of the system failing in one instance. This is a case of there being no system in place.

“There is no system in place for any one of those fifteen million guns, all holding—at least, many holding more—twelve bullets. And just one of those bullets is more than enough to kill.

“So although I am happy to tell you that Philip will survive, I am unhappy to tell you that there are many others who will not. I am unhappy to tell you that Alexander and Eliza Hamilton are far from the only parents who will get a phone call from a hospital, asking them to come and watch their child die in front of them.”

Burr’s voice has reached an unprecedented volume. Some of the senators have interesting facial expressions, and Hamilton suspects they might react similarly if a mouse had proved itself capable of producing a lion’s roar.

“I am unhappy to tell you,” Burr’s voice is shaking. Alexander is leaning forward, unable to look away. “That I have a daughter about Philip’s age, and that I am painfully aware that there is nothing in the world that could stop someone with a gun and no conscience from taking her from me.”

There is utter silence in the chamber. Burr does not speak for a few seconds, seeming to collect himself.

“This is not about the right to bear arms. There is no intent here to ban law-abiding people from owning weapons, to take them away from people who have the knowledge and ability to use them properly, in their own self-defense. Nothing will stop people from applying to own guns, and nothing will stop them from being approved if they demonstrate the ability to own them safely.

“This is not about making money. If fewer guns are sold in this nation, so be it—I do not think any one of us would trade innocent lives for the greater profits of weapons manufacturers.

“You are all familiar with the numbers. I could tell you about gun violence in our nation, mass shootings, drive-bys, violent assaults. I could tell you about gun ownership numbers, about successful gun control in other nations, but it has all been said before, and I don’t aim to waste any of our time.”

His hand is gripping the podium. He is nervous, Alexander realizes, however little he looks it in this moment. The only thing he isn’t sure of is why.

Is he nervous about taking a stand? About making enemies, declaring himself on one side or the other, and maybe losing the support of his constituents because of it?

Or is he nervous that none of them will listen?

Alexander doesn’t know, but he can guess, because he thinks he recognizes the look in Burr’s eye in that moment as he leans forward and speaks clearly and surely.

“I do aim to spare anyone else from experiencing what the Hamilton family has over the past few days. I would like our nation to stop having to bury our children. I would like to believe that this country is safe for my daughter. I hope that you will support this bill because I hope you all wish the same.”

He steps, quickly, away from the microphone, with a short nod. It’s a brief speech, even for Burr, more than brief in comparison to Hamilton, who would have spoken for an hour, maybe two, if he’d been given the chance.

He thinks Burr may have said more than he could have, anyway.

\---

@NYTimes  
Gun control bill passes in Senate 73-27 http://bit.ly/l94nf #aaronburr

@adotham  
@aaronburrsir THIS IS YOUR LEGACY  
RT: Gun control bill passes in Senate 73-27 http://bit.ly/l94nf

@adotham  
@aaronburrsir ISN’T IT BEAUTIFUL

@thomasjeff  
@adotham @aaronburrsir Well played.

@theotheyounger  
Really, really proud  
RT: Gun control bill passes in Senate 73-27 http://bit.ly/l94nf

@aaronburrsir  
Thank you all.  
RT: Gun control bill passes in Senate 73-27 http://bit.ly/l94nf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you to celestialshimmer for beta-reading! I'm sorry to all of you that this update is a little more delayed than usual; Christmas got me a bit off-schedule.
> 
> Thoughts on this chapter: I am not a professional speechwriter. Thank god I am not a speechwriter. Speechwriting is hard. Aaron Burr, thankfully, was well known for being concise. I can't imagine how this chapter would have gone if Alexander Hamilton was addressing the Senate instead. I really do like writing about Aaron Burr; he's a very interesting person whose entire life is unfortunately overshadowed by one action. Consequently, Aaron Burr got an entire chapter, one of the longest so far, I think. Also, I don't think his part in this fic is over, not at all, although he may take a backseat for a little while.
> 
> So, good news for Burr and Hamilton in this chapter; maybe not so much good news next chapter. We'll see. Thank you all, so much, for reading and commenting. Some of you have left some of the nicest feedback I've ever received, and it truly makes my day to hear from you guys. I honestly couldn't stop smiling, reading some of the things you've said. So please keep commenting/asking questions/making suggestions/telling me I'm a monster. (I sort of read it all as expressions of love, anyway.) As always, I'm on Tumblr at catalists if you want to stop by and chat about anything.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliza carries on, and Alexander and Philip have a lot in common.

The downside to Eliza’s day starting off so well is that it really can’t go anywhere but downhill. The kids are gone, off at school and daycare, by the time she hangs up with Alexander and gets out of bed. Part of her feels guilty for how little she’s seen most of her children lately, but she’s mostly just grateful that Angelica and Adrienne are helping.

She loves Alex and James and John and William and Eliza just as much as she loves Angie and Philip, but she doesn’t think she can take their minor crises on top of the major ones. Usually it’s fine—she can deal with Angie’s stress about grades and Alex’s arguments and James’ soccer drama and John’s hatred of math and William and Eliza’s ever-fluctuating likes and dislikes. But she can’t imagine trying to sort through soccer and fractions when she’s worrying about Angie’s state of mind and Philip’s recovery.

She showers and considers breakfast, but there’s still basically no food in the house. She needs to go grocery shopping, she realizes. She needs to fall back into some sort of routine, except there’s no routine to fall back into. Not with Alexander in New York and Angie in the hospital.

But it isn’t as though she’s never had to readjust before. They’ve done it whenever Alexander’s work schedule changes, every year as the kids change grades and schools and, occasionally, numbers. She can manage it.

She heard Philip’s voice on the phone this morning. Philip is going to live. Her son is going to come home to her, and that is all she needs to tell herself to know that they will survive.

So Eliza eats a granola bar and drives to the facility where Angie is staying. She doesn’t like it there. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the facility—if anything, it’s nicer than most doctor’s offices she’s been to. It’s certainly less foreboding than Columbia Hospital. But the very fact she is there means that something is wrong, and she can’t separate her worry about Angie from her feelings about the place.

Dr. Lang comes out to meet her. “Mrs. Hamilton,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” she says. “How is Angie?”

“She’s doing somewhat better,” Dr. Lang says. “I believe what she’s experiencing, at least in part, is dissociative amnesia. It’s her response to trauma, and the best way we have to treat that is to have her in a safe environment and try and encourage her to remember.”

“Home’s a safe environment,” Eliza says, stung.

Dr. Lang is sympathetic. “I’m sure it is, but right now it’s a reminder of the stressor that caused Angie’s distress. This environment is unfamiliar, which helps distance Angie from the traumatic event. Everything at home is going to remind her of her brother.”

“Oh!” Eliza says. “Can I—Alexander called me this morning. I talked to Philip. He’s going to be okay. Can I—I want to tell Angie. Won’t that help?”

Dr. Lang sighs. “It’s possible. It’s also possible, even likely, that she’d have no idea what you were talking about. She doesn’t remember that Philip was shot, not really; it feels like something she dreamed. I’d like to talk to her a little longer and give her the chance to remember some of it.”

“I can’t see her,” Eliza says, it finally sinking in.

“I wouldn’t recommend it right now,” he says. “After we’ve finished evaluating her more fully, I can let you know. And I would be happy to call you and keep you updated on her condition.”

“Okay,” Eliza says, because she doesn’t want to argue, not when she doesn’t know what’s really best for Angie, or even what’s really wrong, but it does hurt to think that she can’t even talk to her daughter. It hurts to think that as her mother, she could do more harm than good. “Yes, I—I would like it, if you could call me.”

“We already have your number on file, I think,” he tells her, “But you can double-check that with the front desk.”

And so she does. And then she leaves, and sits in the parking lot for five minutes before pulling out but doesn’t cry, and then goes to the grocery store because life has to go on and Philip is going to live and Angie is getting help and that’s really, in the end, all she can ask for.

\---

Alexander is still on Twitter, watching the aftereffects of the bill’s passage, when he falls asleep. It’s probably for the best, because it prevents him from getting into a truly dramatic fight with James Monroe, but he’s still vaguely annoyed about it.

He thinks Eliza would be proud of his self-control, though, because he takes a shower and goes back to the hospital instead of writing a scathing takedown of James Monroe and posting it online.

“Mr. Hamilton,” the doctor is walking out of Philip’s room when he arrives, and looks vaguely annoyed. “Let me assure you, no one will ever doubt that you and your son are related.”

“Oh?” Hamilton’s eyebrows go up.

Philip’s voice rises in protest. “You act like that’s a bad thing!”

She sighs, turns and walks back into the room, Hamilton following her. Philip is pushing himself into a sitting position. It is hardly a difficult movement, merely placing the weight of his upper body on his good arm, but his face turns white with the effort and his breathing is ragged.

“Lie down,” the doctor says, and from her tone Hamilton strongly suspects this is not the first time she has said it.

“But—“ she cuts Philip off by taking him by the shoulder and gently pushing him on the mattress. Philip might attempt to stay upright, but the movement is so weak as to be hardly noticeable.

“Do I need to remind you exactly how lucky you are to be alive right now?” the doctor says.

“No,” Philip says after he has his breath back, shooting a glance at his father. “I’m good.”

“Right,” she says. “That’s what I thought. Okay,” she turns to Hamilton. “Here’s where we go from here. First of all, he needs to rest. He may disagree with that, but it’s true.”

“I’ve been sleeping for two days,” Philip puts in. “I’m so behind on like. Everything.”

The doctor looks profoundly unimpressed, turning back to him. “You lost a lot of blood,” she says. “All the nutrients and fluids you had for two days were through an IV. You’re barely getting over a life-threatening infection. You had a fever so high it nearly killed you, and that’s ignoring the organ damage—which, by the way, is miraculous merely for not being worse. It will be weeks before the tissue is even close to fully repairing itself. The only reason your broken arm is in a splint instead of a cast is because I want easier access to your veins in case of emergencies, considering we had to repair several of them as well. You should be happy that you survived, not worried about your homework.”

Philip has the decency to look slightly sheepish as he says, “I really don’t want to have to retake contemporary political philosophy. Which I might, since we’re not supposed to miss discussion sections without emailing our groups. I don’t have room to retake things.”

Oh, yes. His son, double-majoring in Political Science and Comparative Literature and Society. Philip is going to end up as a poet or a politician, and he isn’t sure which is more terrifying. “Well,” Hamilton replies, “Somehow, I doubt anyone was wondering where you were.”

“Probably not, except—oh, fuck, Theo.” Philip attempts to sit up again, and this time it’s his father who puts a hand on his shoulder to prevent it.

“Calm down,” Hamilton says, but Philip’s not having any of it.

“Theo and I had a presentation to do,” he says. “I haven’t even texted.”

“Sometimes people have to fill in for other people during emergencies,” Hamilton says. “For example, Aaron Burr gave a speech in the Senate today.”

“Wait, really?” Philip says, sidetracked. “Shit, now I really need to text Theo.”

“Theo—wait, _Theodosia Burr?_ You have a class with Theodosia Burr?”

Philip blinks at him, a little too wide-eyed and quiet for the question that Alexander has just asked. “Yes,” he says, after a moment, but it is a long enough moment for his father to reach a second conclusion.

“—are you dating Theodosia Burr? Holy shit, you’re dating Theodosia Burr.”

“No!” Philip says, immediately, and then pauses. “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t call it dating…”

“I think I need to sit down,” says Alexander, although he doesn’t, he just starts pacing. “How long has this been going on? Isn’t she a freshman? Are you dating a freshman? Philip, you’re a senior!”

“She’s not even a year younger than me,” says Philip, “And I said, we’re not dating. Dad, can we focus on the real problem, which is that _I have final exams in two weeks and I’m not even allowed to sit up?_ ”

“Right, okay,” Hamilton says. “First of all, it will be fine.”

Philip gives him an incredibly unimpressed look.

“It will,” Alexander says. “Really. And she’s right about you needing to rest.” There’s something incredibly comforting about having a stupid argument with his son, seeing how annoying his own particular brand of stubbornness is when it comes from someone else, like everything is back to normal. At the same time, he hasn’t been able to entirely shake the image of Philip lying pale and still, can’t help but remember how close he was to losing him.

It’s like tripping and managing to stabilize yourself before you fall, but still having to catch your breath for a moment as your brain realizes that the danger is gone, the disaster’s been averted. Alexander’s spent two days staring over the edge of a precipice, and he has to keep reminding himself that they’re on solid ground.

So what Alexander really wants to do is tell Philip to go to sleep and not worry about anything. He wants to tell him to close his eyes and stay here and stay safe, because for the first time in his life this is enough: this semblance of peace, Philip breathing and looking at him, those eyes he half-thought were closed forever. But he also knows that no one will ever be able to talk his son into being less than astonishing, being anything other than entirely determined to do everything he possibly can, and right now that seems to be finishing his college semester.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Hamilton says. “I’ll help you email some people, and then you go to sleep. Five emails.”

“Seven,” Philip counters immediately.

“There’s no way there’s seven people you have to email right now,” Hamilton says.

“I have five professors,” Philip points out. “It’ll be almost the same email for all of them, anyway. And the dean. And Theo. Wait, eight. And Richard.”

Hamilton sighs. “Fine. Eight emails, but only four unique ones. Also, you are not typing. You can tell me what to write.”

“No way. You can type for my professors and the dean; I’m writing to my friends without you reading over my shoulder.”

“What are you saying to Theo that you don’t want me to know?” Alexander demands.

The doctor clears her throat. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she says. “You have until then, Philip. Then we’re changing your bandages and you’re going to sleep.”

“Understood,” says Alexander, because Philip only murmurs something under his breath that he’s pretty sure isn’t agreement.

She leaves, shaking her head.

“Do you have exams or papers?” Alexander asks. “For finals.”

“One exam, four papers,” he says. “Why?”

The real answer is because Philip looks exhausted, even though he’s trying not to. Alexander can see the effort each breath takes him, how pale he’s getting as their conversation goes on. He can barely handle a half-hour’s discussion lying down—how he intends to write essays when sitting up takes every bit of his energy, Alexander doesn’t know.

He wants to tell Philip to let it go. He wants to tell Philip to take the spring semester off, to come home to DC, and he can graduate next year. He’s still so young, only nineteen, it can hardly matter if it takes him a little longer than planned. He wants his son to come home and be safe and heal.

Instead, he says, “No reason,” and opens up his laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your amazing comments—they make me so incredibly happy, you have no idea. Thank you celestialshimmer for beta-reading (and being the recipient of my Pacific Rim!AU related screaming)! I’m so sorry for having another delay in posting; I’ve been sick for a couple days and have been sleeping more than writing. But I’m feeling better now, so hopefully can get back on a better schedule.
> 
> Notes on this chapter: Philip did graduate from King’s College at nineteen—hence his status as a senior here. Richard (Price), Philip’s roommate here, was historically a friend of Philip’s (who also challenged Eacker to a duel). Theodosia and Philip would have been about a year apart in age. Both Political Science and Comparative Literature and Society are majors at Columbia. I don’t actually know if you can double-major there, but if anyone could it would be a Hamilton. 
> 
> Hopefully everything about Angie’s situation is as true and accurate as possible. Philip’s medical situation is probably less so, but if it doesn’t sound wrong then I’ve done my job. I’m also, if you know me at all, a huge sucker for the Philip/Theodosia ship, so consider this pure self-indulgence on my part.
> 
> Next chapter is, I think, going to be Angie’s. We’ll see how it goes. Please leave all your comments/questions/anything below. I’m also on Tumblr as catalists if you want to scream about Hamilton or talk about this fic or hear all my ideas for a Pacific Rim AU…


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie takes inventory of her life and has a conversation.

The solitude of the room is mostly a relief, if Angelica is honest with herself. It doesn’t have all her things in it, like her room at home does, but she doesn’t really feel like doing anything, so it doesn’t turn out to be as much of an annoyance as she expects. And it’s quiet. That’s the best part, she thinks. Her siblings aren’t there, and they aren’t supposed to be there. There’s no sense of expectation or anything being missing.

When she wakes up that morning, she lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. It isn’t her bed, or her ceiling, but that turns out to be okay. She’s tired, even though she thinks she got a good night’s sleep. She isn’t sure what time it is, though—maybe it’s early in the morning and she hasn’t slept much after all.

There is a clock on the far wall, but she can’t make out the hands from her position, and can’t be bothered to get up and take a closer look. No one seems to have come to wake her, so maybe it doesn’t matter. The day before had been exhausting, anyway, although parts of it are blurry in her memory.

She remembers being tired; she remembers resting her chin on her hands and watching her mother fill out a lot of medical history forms. She offers to do it herself, and her mom hands a couple of pages over, the easy ones like her name and age and address and whether she has any allergies. She doesn’t remember when she last got vaccinated for anything, though, and doesn’t know their insurance policy number, so her mom takes those.

She finishes her part first and watches her mom across the table. Eliza looks tired, too, and has on the expression that Angie has come to associate with worry. Her lips are pressed tight together, and there’s a wrinkle between her eyebrows. She usually looks like that when her dad is late coming home and doesn’t call, or when William is throwing a tantrum, but now it’s about Angie. She remembers feeling guilt settle into the pit of her stomach about that; she has never liked worrying her parents.

She pushes that particular memory away and settles for staring at the white ceiling instead. She isn’t used to being the problem. She’s quiet, especially compared to some of her brothers. She’s never acted out at school or gotten into fights with people, or not done her homework, or caused a public spectacle. She’s never been that special, either, but that’s okay. She’s really good at playing the piano—better than Philip, she thinks, although people pay more attention when Philip plays because it’s flashier. He likes to switch lines around, embellish things, change the key.

It used to bother her a lot—that Philip always got so much more attention than she did. He was older, he was smarter, he talked a lot faster and louder than she ever did. Most of all, he wasn’t shy. Angie could never bring herself to show off the way Philip could, and it always left her in the background while people talked about her older brother. “He takes after Alexander,” everyone always said. She’d been jealous about that, too.

“Why aren’t I more like Dad?” she’d asked her Aunt Angelica once. She’d been about twelve, feeling frustrated and ignored. At this point, she can’t even remember what it was that Philip had done, but back then it had been another reminder she couldn’t compare. Maybe he’d gotten a good grade on a test, or won a poetry contest. Something insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but she’d been so upset.

“Because the world shouldn’t suffer another Alexander Hamilton,” her aunt had said, wryly. She’d turned more serious when she saw her niece’s expression. “Who cares if you’re not like your Dad? You’re a lot like your Mom, Angie. Trust me, that’s a good thing. The world needs more people like Eliza in it.”

It was nice to think, now, that she was like Mom, but that hadn’t made her feel better then. She’d gone back to sulking in her room until Philip had showed up, knocking on the doorframe to announce his presence and dragging her downstairs to play piano.

That part, she remembers perfectly. At thirteen, he was already handsome, if a little uncoordinated. He was in the middle of a growth spurt, his arms and legs a little longer than he was used to, but he still managed a sort of wobbly grace as he stood on the landing and coaxed her to follow. “Come on, Angie please?”

“You can play it yourself,” she’d said. At the time, she’d felt like she was staring imperiously down at him from above, like a queen on a balcony. Looking back, it had probably just been petulance.

“Not as well as you can,” Philip had said. “Come on, just one song—you’re so much better than me.”

At the time, she’d quizzed him to make sure he “wasn’t just saying that” before finally agreeing; now, though, she doesn’t really care if Philip’s better than her at anything. He’s ahead of her, period. Nineteen years old and going to graduate from Columbia in the spring, when she’s still slogging through her senior year of high school.

She’s accepted that, at this point, she’ll always feel a little stupid next to him. So what? All it means is that she’s got the coolest big brother in the world.

It’s the end of November, now—almost December. A few weeks, and Philip will be home. She’ll send in the last of her college applications and the semester will end and it will be Christmas, and everything will be fine. Angie doesn’t know why she’s anxious; they’re so close to the break, her grades are good, she’s making good progress on everything. It’s all fine.

She feels better now, less tired. She’d been annoyed to have to spend the night here, but it might have been a good idea, she figures. A little bit of an escape from all six of her siblings—well, five. Five of her siblings. Philip’s not home anymore, not during the semester.  
Technically he’s a contributor to the chaos, too, but she misses him like nothing else. She loves Alex and James and John and William and Eliza, but Philip is the only one older than her. Unlike two-year-old Eliza (who for a long time she’d forget to count when she told everyone how many people were in her family) she’s always had Philip.

Occasional jealousy, even less-than-occasional jealousy, aside, she can’t imagine living without him.

\---

“Tell me about your family, Angie,” Dr. Lang says, and she sighs.

“My Dad is the Secretary of the Treasury. Alexander Hamilton. My mom’s name is Eliza. She helped found an orphanage when we lived in New York and she works at one here in DC, too. I have an older brother, four little brothers, and a little sister.”

“Do you get along well with your parents?” he asks.

“I mean, yeah. We don’t have problems, usually. Dad’s not always home a lot, but it’s good when he is. I love my parents. They love me. Why are you asking me these things?”

“You seem to be under a lot of stress,” the doctor says. “I’m just trying to get an idea of where it’s coming from.”

She shrugs.

“Can you tell me about your siblings?”

“Um, there’s Eliza,” she starts ticking them off on her fingers. “She’s cute, but she’s super loud and she’s only two. You don’t really have a personality when you’re two. William is four, he’s just like barely starting to be able to hold actual conversations. Which I guess is longer than the rest of us took, I think it worried Mom. Dad didn’t really notice. John is…” she trails off. “Nine, I think? Shit, I can’t remember when his birthday is.” Angie laughs nervously. “He’s pretty quiet, mostly. He’s smart but he hates math. James is thirteen and he has a ton of friends and plays soccer. He wants to play next year when he starts high school, and he’s practicing a lot because he wants to make varsity. Alex is fifteen and he’s such a smartass, he gets into trouble because he picks fights with his teachers. He could be doing really well in school but instead he’s just doing okay. And Philip’s nineteen, he’s a senior at Columbia now. He’s really smart.”

“That’s it?” Dr. Lang asks. “He’s really smart?”

“No,” Angie says. “He’s really—I don’t know, what’s that word for, everyone really likes you? Not popular, um…” she taps her fingernails on the table. “Charismatic! Everyone says he’s a lot like Dad. I’m probably closer to him than everyone else—it’s been weird, having him gone these past couple years. But he’ll be home soon.”

“Do you talk to him often?”

“Yeah,” Angie answers immediately. “We text all the time, and we Skype usually about once a week or so. Do you think my mom told him I was here? Normally I have my phone with me all the time, so he might worry if I don’t text back after a while.”

“I’m sure she did,” Dr. Lang says. “If she forgot, he can call her and she’ll let him know.”

“Okay,” Angie says. “I don’t want him to worry.” It feels stupid to be saying it, though, when she’s always been the worrier out of the two of them. Philip tends to stay calm—odds were, he’d just text Mom and ask if anything was up with Angie. If Philip didn’t text back—  
\--well, she’d be calm at first, and then start worrying, picking up the phone compulsively and turning the screen on even though she didn’t hear it vibrate. Her possible explanations ricocheted from faint jealousy that he’d been distracted by his friends and his whole other life in New York, to extreme worries that maybe something had happened, he’d been mugged or gotten lost or there’d been an accident on the subway.

That had happened a couple times the first year he was gone. She’d picked up most of the paranoia from her mom, who’d been convinced Philip was too young to go off to school. But Philip had been adamant and Alexander had been supportive, and Eliza had given in. Of course. Philip and her dad could talk someone into anything.

“Is there anything that worries you?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I guess school, a little, but that’s pretty normal. And my grades are good right now, so it’s fine. I think all the teachers know we’re working on college applications, so there’s not too much homework.”

“What about college applications?”

She shrugs again. “Yeah, I’m nervous, I guess. I’m applying to Columbia because it’s what Dad did, and Philip really likes it there, but I’m not sure it’s for me. Mom went to Amherst. I’m applying there, too. And some other places. We’re going to visit them in the spring, so I can see everything before I decide. I don’t even know what I want to major in. I’d do music, but I don’t know what you do with a degree in music. I’ll figure it out.”

Dr. Lang nods. “How do your parents feel about it?”

“Mom says to do what makes me happy. I haven’t really talked about it with Dad, but I don’t think he cares so long as it’s a good school. Like I said, he’s not home a lot.” She shrugs. “He’d be really happy if I went to Columbia, I think. He was really happy when Philip went.”

“Do you feel any pressure to do what Philip did?”

“No,” Angie says, and she means it. “I used to compare myself to him all the time, but we agreed to stop doing that. I mostly just miss having him around. He’s pretty much my best friend.”

“Have you talked to him much this week?”

“Yes, of course,” she answers, automatically.

“What did you talk about?”

“We…” Angie pauses. “…I don’t remember.”

“Anything at all?” Dr. Lang asks, and she shakes her head.

“Is it important?” she asks, and then realizes that it must be. Angie’s good at reading people, and she doesn’t know the doctor well, but she can judge his concern well enough. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Can you answer just one more question for me, first?” he asks. “Can you tell me what your last memory of Philip is?”

“We were texting on Sunday morning,” she answers, and then pauses. “And then Monday I had this weird dream that…”

She stops. Everything is so hazy, and yet she is missing something, something terribly important. She just has to remember what it is. She just wants to remember…

And then she does, and she immediately regrets it.

“Angie?” the doctor asks, and her own voice sounds too loud in her ears.

“Oh, God. Philip was shot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very late, for a number of reasons. One of them is that a lot of research went into it (thank you august_songs for help with that!). I tried to take into account everything I read and heard, and I hope I did some kind of justice to the depiction. I'm always open to criticism if there's something you feel I could do better.
> 
> Other chapter notes: I...have a really hard time keeping track of all the Hamilton kids. I had to reread my old chapters to make sure I wasn't contradicting myself, and even then I might have fucked something up. On the other hand, I really love sibling relationships and I enjoyed being able to focus on Philip and Angie's here, so that was a lot of fun to write.
> 
> With any luck, the next chapter should be faster in coming. As always, thank you to celestialshimmer for beta-reading (and being the recipient of late-night, all caps messages about Lafayette) and to everyone who has left a comment. I really do love and appreciate the feedback; thank you so much. And please feel free to come message me on Tumblr at catalists. You, too, could be the recipient of MESSAGES THAT LOOK LIKE THIS at three AM.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton makes plans, Angie learns the truth, and Burr worries.

Twenty minutes since they started, Alexander can tell Philip is fighting exhaustion. The first email, to the dean, goes fairly smoothly. It’s only when Philip starts dictating the second, to his professors, that he begins hesitating. The words come more slowly. When he repeats himself, too exhausted to keep the sentences straight in his mind, Alexander moves to sit on the edge of the bed so Philip can see the screen as well. That gives him less to keep track of, but it doesn’t help his increasing pallor and labored breathing.

“Okay,” Alexander says, when they’ve sent the message to his professors. “You need to rest.”

“You said,” the sentence is broken by a breath, “An hour. I need to talk to Theodosia.”

“After you’ve slept,” he says.

“She’ll worry,” Philip says.

“She’ll worry more if you send her an email that looks like you have brain damage,” Hamilton says flatly. “Go to sleep.”

“And Richard?” Philip asks, yawning. “I have a twenty page final paper I need to start, but I don’t have the book, it’s on my desk. I need to ask him to bring it.”

“I’ll go to your dorm,” Alexander promises. “I can get you some things.”

A textbook does not top the list of things that Hamilton wants to get for Philip. He won’t say it—can’t say it, not without starting an argument at the very least—but he has no idea how Philip intends to write a twenty-page paper in the next two weeks. If twenty minutes of emailing people leaves him too drained to sit up, he can’t imagine that he’s going to be able to manage coursework.

“Okay,” Philip says. His voice has grown softer, and as Hamilton watches his eyes close. In minutes, his breathing has begun to even out.

He is still sleeping when the doctor returns with a nurse to change his bandages. She turns to look at Alexander and says, “It might be better if you waited outside.”

“I’ve seen gunshot wounds before,” Alexander says, which is true. He’s never seen the wound suffered by his son, though, and the idea of it is haunting enough that he considers taking her up on the suggestion.

Something compels him to stay, though. It’s partially stubbornness. He won’t let the fear of seeing the damage, that it’s worse than he could imagine, drive him away. It’s partially practicality, the idea that it’s better to see it than to keep speculating about it. Know thine enemy, or something like that.

It’s mostly the fact that he is here, and Eliza is not, and jostling the wound is bound to be painful, and he is the only person who can be here for Philip. It’s mostly that he can imagine Philip waking up, still exhausted and crying out in pain, and Alexander can’t let him wake up alone.

“If you’re sure,” she says, moving to Philip’s side and lifting the sheet to reveal the bandages.

“I’m sure,” he says. He moves to the head of the bed to get out of the way. Philip’s dark curls are hopelessly tangled again. He remembers Eliza gently combing her fingers through them, that first night, and misses her all over again.

Philip is alive. Alexander knows this, but he also knows by how narrow a margin it is true. 

Every strained breath and wince of pain is a reminder that his son is suffering, that this is not over. Eliza has always been better than Alexander at waiting, at taking comfort in what they have rather than imagining the what-ifs, but she is not here and he hates how helpless he is to do anything.

Philip wakes with a gasp of pain, and Alexander grasps his hand and whispers to him. “It’s alright. Just breathe. You’ll be alright,” and it’s a promise, he realizes. Somehow, he will make sure that Philip is alright. There is nothing he can do to make him heal, nothing he can do to get rid of the pain or give him back the strength that has left him so quickly.

All he can do is stay with Philip, so he will stay for as long as he needs to. He will help Philip figure out the future, twenty-page papers or not. There is no reversing a bullet, only repairing the damage, and he will do everything he can.

And then, well. Alexander Hamilton may be a politician now, but not too long ago, he was a lawyer. He can’t physically hurt George Eacker. He can’t make him suffer the way that Philip is suffering.

Even so, he can think of a few ways to make sure the man burns in hell.

\---

“Philip,” Angie repeats. “Oh my god. Is he okay? I haven’t—I didn’t—“

“Take a deep breath, Angie,” Dr. Lang advises. “It’s important that you stay calm.”

“How did I—“ she doesn’t even know how to put it. All she can think is that Philip is hurt, Philip is _dead_. “What happened? Tell me what happened to Philip. He was shot. Who shot him?”

“Angie, I need you to breathe,” he says, and she is suddenly furious. Who does he think he is, treating her like a child? It’s her brother, _it’s her big brother and he won’t tell her what’s happening._

“No! I don’t need to fucking breathe!” she snaps. “I need to know what happened to my brother!”

“Okay,” says Dr. Lang. “First of all, I spoke to your mother this morning, and she told me that your brother is going to be fine.”

“Philip’s going to be fine,” she repeats, uncertainly. It doesn’t hit her immediately, and then it does, and the fight abruptly goes out of her. “Okay. Okay. What happened? Who shot him?”

“I don’t know a lot about it,” Dr. Lang says. “From what I do know, it was a fellow student with whom Philip had fought previously.”

“Fought—like, argued with?” she laughs, weakly. “That’s so like him, to get into a fight with something and make them mad enough to--” and then her laugh turns into a sob.

“Angie?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” she manages, through another sob. “I’m just—I want to talk to him.” That’s all she wants, suddenly. To hear his voice. It’s hard to believe he was shot, that he’s going to be okay, the whole situation feels so unreal that she doesn’t want to believe it.

Talking to Philip will make it real, somehow. Make it real that he was hurt, but also make it real that he is alive and healing.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea right now,” he cautions, but Angie is a Hamilton, and she may not be quite as headstrong or as stubborn as Philip, but she’s more than capable of standing up for herself.

She wipes away the tears from her face. “It is. I need to talk to him.” She’s confident in that. “Let me talk to him.”

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll call your mother. Maybe this evening?”

“Mom!” Suddenly Angie has another concern. “Oh, my god. She came back here because of me. She went to—Philip’s still in New York, isn’t it? Why isn’t Mom with him? It’s because of me.” Angie isn’t stupid, she can reach conclusions, and she’s suddenly suffocated by the guilt. “Is anyone with him? Philip’s not alone, is he?”

“No,” Dr. Lang says. “Your father is with him.”

“Dad?” she isn’t sure why, but it gives her pause. “He’s—okay. That’s good.” She starts to say, _but he has work_ , and then realizes how absurd that is. Because he may not be around sometimes—okay, a lot—but he’s almost always there when the family needs him. She remembers the births of most of her siblings, and her dad was there. She knows he was there at her birth, from the photos. She doesn’t know about Philip. She’s never thought to ask, although when she thinks about it, maybe he was deployed at the time.

“Okay,” she repeats, trying to calm herself down. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix._ Count to ten. It’s what’s her mom has always done when she’s having a particularly trying conversation, trying not to lose her temper at someone, trying not to get upset. She’d taught it to Angie when she was young, back when she and Philip would get into arguments almost every day.

Philip. Focus on Philip. _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq._ “You said you talked to my mom earlier. I want to talk to her. Did she call you earlier? Was she here? Why didn’t she talk to me?”

“I thought it would be better if we talked first,” he says.

“Okay—I, we’ve talked,” she’s annoyed now. “So I want to talk to Mom. And then I want to talk to Philip.”

Dr. Lang has leaned back a little and is looking at her. She stares him down. She can win a staring contest, any day. James had an obsession with them, a couple years back, and it’s all about the practice. Sure enough, he blinks first.

“I’ll call your mom and see when she can come in,” he says, finally.

“Okay,” she says. “Can I have a book or something? My room’s really boring.” She’s feeling pretty drained, actually, and thinks she could go back to sleep again, but she’s not going to. She’s going to talk to Philip first. It helps to have a goal in mind.

“We have a small library,” he says. “I’ll show you where it is.”

“Great.” She will read, and talk to her mom, and talk to Philip. That’s the immediate future, and all that she’s going to worry about right now.

\---

Aaron Burr’s aide is smiling when he walks in, but it’s definitely a fake smile, and when she sees who it is it subsides to a grimace. “We’ve been fielding calls from reporters all morning,” she announces. “Television, radio, newspaper—you don’t have a large enough staff for this.”

“I’ve never needed a larger staff,” Burr says, already aware of the absurdity of his words as he’s speaking them. He’s never needed a larger staff before, true, but he’s never made a speech that had the whole nation watching before. His name has never been attached to a bill that passed by a bigger margin than anyone expected, sooner than anyone expected.

“Well, you might need a bigger one now,” she says, and Burr laughs. “I’m serious,” she says. “People are paying attention.”

“I know,” he says, with a sigh. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. Mostly, it’s exhausting. He’s gained thousands of followers on Twitter in a matter of hours. He can’t click on Google News without seeing his name. He’s quietly forswearing the internet for as long as he can without letting things slip to the wayside: for every congratulatory tweet or excited Tumblr post, there is someone else spitting vitriol.

On the other hand, there is something exhilarating about it, to finally stop waiting and _act_. _I did something. I changed the world, just a little. I made them pay attention._

“What do you want to do?” his aide asks, bringing him back to the present.

“Keep telling them I’m unavailable for comment at this time,” Burr says, the decision easy enough to make. “We’ll prepare a statement for the website.”

“That’s it?” she asks.

He considers it, carefully. He could speak to most newspapers in the nation, but they’d all spin it the way they wanted, anyway. Let them pick apart his statement for what scraps of opinion it would end up containing.

“New York,” he decides. “I’m New York’s senator. If someone from the New York Times calls, set up an appointment. Otherwise,” he shrugs. “I’ve said enough.”

She nods and turns back to her desk, and he walks back into his office. It is strangely peaceful, for how frantic he has felt in it over the last few days. There are still pages scattered across the desk, draft after draft of the speech mixed with statistics and legal histories. He gathers them up and sets them to the side, and then picks up a framed photograph instead.

The photograph is old and faded, but there is no dust on the frame. It has lived in his office—this office, his law office in New York—for nearly fifteen years now. He tilts the image into the light and looks at the faces of his girls. Theodosia, before she got sick, and in her arms little Theo, only three at the time.

“Oh, Theodosia,” Burr whispers. “Why aren’t you here to tell me if I’ve done the right thing?”

He expects nothing but silence, and he receives nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to celestialshimmer for their wonderful beta-reading efforts, and to everyone who left a comment or messaged me on Tumblr (@ catalists, if you want to drop by). It means so much to hear your feedback--seriously, the email notifications from Ao3 about comments are my favorite emails.
> 
> There aren't a lot of historical notes on this chapter, aside from Aaron Burr--because seriously, poor Aaron Burr. That line "everyone who loves me has died" in Wait For It? Yeah, pretty much true. His mother, father, grandparents, etc., all dead. And that would continue to prove true: he was married to Theodosia Prevost for ten years before she died, probably of stomach cancer. He was devastated. He thought very highly of her and considered her an intellectual equal, and would consult her on important matters.
> 
> Again, I love to hear your thoughts, so please comment with any reactions/concerns/criticisms/questions/anything. It absolutely makes my day to see them. Thank you for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton knows that facts are not always comforting, but goes looking anyway.

Philip’s room is surprising only in how utterly ordinary it is. His roommate—Richard Price, Alexander remembers--hovers in the doorway as he enters, as though he’s expecting some sort of inspection. Hamilton hardly knows what he’s looking for, standing there in this place where his son lived.

_Lives_ , because he would be back. _Lives_ , because his son is still living.

That is what strikes him—everything on Philip’s side of the room has been left in a suspended state, untouched. There is a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the desk, cold and congealed. His laptop appears to have turned off on its own, but it’s still open. His backpack alone seems out of place, set upright on the floor, nothing else around it as though it has somehow repelled all other objects.

“I—brought it back,” Richard says. “The officers—they gave it to me, said they didn’t need it.”  
“Oh,” Alexander says, and he wonders why he didn’t think of that, what had become of Philip’s things in the aftermath.

“His girlf—Theo, has his phone,” Richard says. It’s one of the least effective last-minute word swaps that Hamilton has ever heard, which is saying something, since he has seven children and was once a lawyer. “She, um, she keeps saying she’s gonna bring it by, but.”

He kneels on the floor next to the backpack, meaning to check it for books, but he freezes with his hand inches from the zipper, because—

\--the cloth is speckled with dried blood.

“Oh, God,” he flinches back, involuntarily, and all of a sudden he knows why Richard has been giving the backpack a wide berth.

“I didn’t—know how to clean it,” Richard says. “Or if I should, or…”

Alexander can’t respond. He stands abruptly and walks out, bracing himself against the wall. He wants to throw up.

He isn’t sure how long it takes him to pull himself together. He can’t get the image out of his head of Philip bleeding, in pain, waiting in agony for an ambulance—God, he hopes he wasn’t alone. There’s too many blank spaces in the narrative, too many uncertainties between a gunshot and a hospital room. He wants to know, hates being in the dark, but he’s unsure he can bear to hear and account of his son’s suffering.

Finally, he takes a deep breath and steps back into the room, this time gravitating away from the backpack.

Price has moved to his desk, is working on something, but immediately stands when Alexander enters. He doesn’t say anything, just stands there awkwardly.

“Philip wanted a book,” Alexander says. “A philosophy textbook?” He can’t even remember the exact request.

Richard’s eyes widen a little, “Philip’s awake?”

Hamilton realizes that his world has narrowed in the past few days; Aaron Burr and Eliza have become his only points of contact. Burr’s speech had been a public announcement of Philip’s survival, but the populace at large was not necessarily watching Senate streams on a daily basis.

“Yes,” Alexander says, after a moment. “He—yes. He’s going to be alright.”

A grin spreads across Richard’s features. “Fuck, that’s—I gotta tell Theo.”

“She knows,” Hamilton says. “Theodosia Burr, right?”

“Yes,” Richard says, sounding surprised. “But—“

“I told her father,” Hamilton says.

“Wait, he told you they were dating? I thought—“ Richard shuts up.

“He told me today,” he says, vaguely annoyed that not only is his son’s relationship status a matter of public knowledge to everyone but him, but there’s apparently an (admittedly pathetic) conspiracy to keep him in the dark. “And I’d told Aaron Burr before.”

He turns back to the desk to look for the textbook, hearing Richard’s startled “Oh!” behind him as the connection dawns on him. He moves a returned essay, a notebook, and picks up the book beneath. It’s not a textbook, though, it’s a library book. When he picks it up, a receipt slips out from beneath the cover, and he picks it up and reads it.

Past due—due two days ago, in fact.

A morbid thought strikes him—if Philip hadn’t survived, how long would the library book have been left unattended? Were library fines waived for the deceased?

He picks up the book, casts around and finds a textbook that seems to be about political philosophy and takes that too. It’s probably the right one, although there are enough books scattered around that he can’t be sure.

“You said Theodosia Burr has his phone?” Alexander asks. He tacks the last name on for her, because he can’t break the habit when thinking of her father and it only seems fair to be consistent.

“Yeah,” Richard says. “She lives in Carman Hall.”

“Thanks,” Hamilton says, and leaves. He has to return a library book, and then he has to meet Theodosia.

The library is the easier part. He walks in, sets the book on the desk. “Hi,” Hamilton says. “This is overdue. Can I pay the fine?”

The student working at the computer doesn’t even look at him, just automatically scans it in, and then flinches upon seeing the screen.

“You’re—Alexander Hamilton.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Can I please pay my son’s library fine?”

“I—“ she hits a key. “I’m going to waive that.”

“Okay,” Hamilton says. “Have a nice day.” She stammers out a similar sentiment, and he leaves.

Sometimes he forgets that he’s developed a bit of a reputation in the world. He wouldn’t precisely describe it as _nice_ that he’s able to make college students nervous with his mere presence, but it’s—okay, it’s kind of nice.

Maybe that will extend to his son’s girlfriend, he considers. There’s really only one way to find out.

\---

@NYTimes  
Aaron Burr discusses the gun control debate http://bit.ly/56d87f

@aaronburrsir  
RT: Aaron Burr discusses the gun control debate http://bit.ly/56d87f

@thomasjeffs  
how can you say so little in such a long article??  
RT: Aaron Burr discusses the gun control debate http://bit.ly/56d87f

@thomasjeffs  
@aaronburrsir please remind me how you got elected?

@aaronburrsir  
@thomasjeffs In New York, citizens do this thing called voting—maybe you don’t do that in Virginia.

@genlafayette  
@thomasjeffs @aaronburrsir ooh, felt that burn all the way across the Atlantic

@thomasjeffs  
i can’t be the only person wondering. where is @adotham when you actually need him?

\---

Theodosia is supposed to be doing homework. She is supposed to be studying for finals. She knows all these things, but she can’t concentrate. She’s felt off-kilter for days, unable to shake the echo of a gunshot from her mind, a gunshot she didn’t even hear.

That last part doesn’t seem to matter, though, since her imagination’s been filling it in just fine.

Instead of doing homework, she’s been trawling social media for mentions of her father. Theo knows it’s a terrible idea—she knows her dad avoids doing it at all costs—but people being assholes on the internet are an easy target for her anger right now, a much better target than a certain George Eacker.

She’s not stupid enough to actually get into a fight with someone over an obliquely racist Facebook post, but there’s something gratifying in typing out responses even if she doesn’t actually post them.

She’s startled out of a particularly derogatory paragraph by a knock at the door. “Hey, Theo?” a girl from her hall calls.

“Yeah?” she stands up and heads for the door.

“There’s a guy in the lobby looking for you.”

“What?” she asks, and opens the door.

“Some guy in the lobby wants to talk to you,” she repeats, and another girl comes up behind her and rolls her eyes.

“Ha, ‘some guy’. Theo, the Secretary of the Treasury’s in the lobby and wants to talk to you.”

“What?” the first girl says. “Wait, that was Alexander Hamilton? I thought he would be older, but he’s actually kind of hot.”

Theodosia isn’t sure if she wants to talk to Alexander Hamilton, but she is sure she doesn’t want to hear the rest of this conversation, so she ducks back into her room to grab her key card. 

Philip’s phone is sitting on her desk. For a while it had buzzed with emails, texts, phone calls. Then she’d turned it off, unable to bear it, and since then it’s been silent. She picks it up as well, and heads downstairs. 

He’s facing away from the staircase, typing something on his phone, and she clears her throat. “Mr. Hamilton?”

He turns. “Theodosia Burr,” Alexander greets her. “Wow, you’re a lot taller than I remember.”

Theo thinks she might have been fourteen or so the last time they met, so that makes sense. “I have Philip’s phone,” she says, unable to come up with anything else to say, and holds it out to him.

“Thanks,” Hamilton takes it.

“Is he—how is he?” Theo asks. She’s tired of third-hand information from her dad.

“He’s doing okay,” Hamilton says. “He’s really tired, and doesn’t want to admit it.”

“That sounds like him,” she can’t help but smile, just a little.

“He tried to email you earlier,” Hamilton said, “But we made him go to sleep, in the interest of the eventual product actually being comprehensible.”

“He should—tell him to text me,” Theo says.

There’s a brief pause, and then Hamilton says, “Do you have class?”

“No?”

“You should come back with me and see him,” Hamilton says. “Although, he might still be asleep. But I know he’d like to see you, if he’s up.”

Theo realizes two things at the exact same time. First, someone has told Philip’s father about their—whatever the hell their relationship was, anyway. Second, he’s offering some kind of tacit approval.

“Yeah, I—I’ll come,” she says.

Philip is still sleeping when they arrive, but no one objects to them staying, so Theodosia hovers awkwardly halfway between the bed and the doorway while Alexander sits down. The afternoon has stretched into evening, and in the half-light the dark circles under his eyes and lines on his face are all the more obvious.

“Why did you have his phone?” he asks, suddenly. He doesn’t look away from Philip, but a lack of eye contact doesn’t diminish his intensity. Hamilton’s eyes are what she finds the most unnerving, she decides. There is a great deal of resemblance between him and his son, but it is their eyes that are entirely identical.

Theodosia is thrown off by the sudden interrogation. “Well, we’ve been—close, so—“ she starts to stammer an explanation of their relationship, but he cuts her off.

“Not that,” Alexander says. “I mean—were you there? Did you—see?”

It all makes sense, then; Hamilton remains preoccupied with the very thing that she has spent the last few days refusing to think about. It seems silly, then, that she had been so worried about what he would think of her. It’s obvious he has different concerns. She wonders how lucid Philip is, if he’d considered the benefits of revealing their relationship now and made a calculated decision, or if it had been a mistake.

She hasn’t known Philip to make too many mistakes; he’s too smart for that. But George Eacker was some kind of mistake—she wonders where the fatal point was, whether it was chance or a specific, solid moment that threw everything into motion.

Theodosia realizes she’s gotten lost in thought, and Hamilton is still waiting for an answer. She shakes her head. “I—no. I was—campus had a lockdown. One of the guys in his class knew we were—together, and he gave me the phone. I know some people were there, when it happened, but I don’t really know any of them.”

“Did—“ Hamilton’s voice breaks, and he stops, clears his throat. “Did Philip know them?”

“I don’t know,” Theo says.

He turns away from her, so she can’t see his face, but the hand resting on the arm of the chair is shaking. He is silent for a long moment. “I hope he wasn’t alone.”

Theo knows he wasn’t alone in the strictest sense of the word—there were other students, witnesses, but she realizes that she doesn’t know what happened, not really. If they’d scattered after the gunshot, if anyone had stayed with him. She doesn’t want to think about it. Hamilton is looking at Philip again, eyes haunted.

“Well, he’s not alone now,” she says, steadily.

“No,” Hamilton replies. “No, he’s not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm officially back at college; with any luck, this won't affect updates, although my roommate does not necessarily appreciate the fact I sometimes write best in the early hours of the morning. Regardless, I will make every effort to keep them coming in a timely fashion.
> 
> Historical notes: Hamilton's returning of the library book is a reference to [something in Hamilton's expenses](http://catalists.tumblr.com/post/137074797783/publius-esquire-the-implication-that-hamilton), which implies he had to pay a library fine for Philip after his death. This broke my heart, so obviously got included in this fic.
> 
> Thanks go as usual to my amazing beta celestialshimmer, and to everyone who commented and messaged me. It makes me so happy to hear what you all think, you guys have no idea. As always, I love to hear your ideas/opinions/criticisms/incoherent screams of rage, so please leave a comment below (or come hit me up @ catalists on Tumblr).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hamiltons struggle to plan for the future--and keep track of the present.

Philip opens his eyes and regrets it. Only half-awake, his vision is blurred, unable to adjust to the harsh fluorescent light streaming in from the doorway. He wants to shield his eyes, but he can’t move his arm properly, so he attempts to turn over instead. The sudden, shooting pain in his abdomen momentarily paralyzes him. It feels as though he’s been impaled, like something is being shoved straight through him.

Oh, wait.

He takes a shuddering breath, then another, as the agony subsides to a dull ache. His vision is clearing, enough to realize that his father is hovering over him.

“Philip?” he says, worriedly.

“Hi, Dad,” he says, a little faintly. Takes another breath. “I’m fine. Tried to move, that was—stupid.” The throbbing in his side doesn’t seem like it’s going to subside, but it’s possible to ignore, so he does. The mild level of pain has become a quiet constant, at some point, but he isn’t quite sure when.

“Do you need anything?” Hamilton asks, his concerned expression not fading at all. “I can get a nurse.”

“Nah,” Philip says, “I’m good, really.”

Whether his dad believes him or not isn’t totally clear, but all he says is, “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Yeah?” Philip says. His first instinct is to sit up and look around, but he curbs it, the memory of his last attempt at movement still fresh in his mind.  
“Yeah,” says a familiar voice, and he looks over and sees Theodosia Burr.

She is standing a foot and a half back from the bed, her hands half-curled into fists at her side. Uncharacteristic, he thinks—she is occasionally reticent, frequently cautious, always sensible, but never nervous. It doesn’t suit her.

She seems to have the same thought, and shakes off whatever was holding her back, stepping forward to the bed. At a close distance, he can see that her eyes are wet.

“Dumbass,” she says. It comes out a little choked, and she coughs. “How are you doing?”

“Better now that you’re here,” he answers, immediately. It has the desired effect—she smiles and then tries to hide it.

“Dumbass,” she says again, more lightly. “You got shot. You got fucking shot.”

“Really?” Philip says, eyes widening. “I didn’t know that.” He can’t keep a straight face, though.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says, but she has lifted a hand from her side and reaches across the mattress to lace their fingers together. “You’re absolutely unbelievable, you know that. I was so _fucking_ worried—“ she breaks off again and shakes her head. “Don’t do that again.”

“Not planning on it,” he promises, and then adds, softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—you’re not supposed to be sorry, you were shot,” Theodosia sounds frustrated and then she sighs. “Sorry, I’m being unreasonable.”

“You’re fine,” Philip says. He watches her for a moment and then says, “Isn’t it Wednesday?”

“Yeah,” she says, blinking at the sudden subject change.

“When does your train leave?” he asks.

“Not until eleven,” she says. “I’m good to stay, don’t worry.”

“Your train?” Hamilton says, looking up. He’s sitting on the chair apart from the bed, typing something on his phone. The distance would give a semblance of privacy except that Philip knows that his dad’s absolutely eavesdropping on their whole conversation, so he isn’t fooled.

“She’s going down to DC for Thanksgiving,” Philip says.

Alexander actually freezes mid-movement. “For Thanksgiving.”

“Yes,” says Theodosia. “We don’t do much—it’s just Dad and I, but I know he’ll spend it alone if I don’t go home, so—“ she shrugs.

Alexander is still not moving. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

“Yes,” Theo says, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.

He slumps in the chair and covers his face with his hand. “God.” Then he looks up. “I’m going to go call your mother.”

\---

It’s evening by the time Eliza can get to the hospital to “discuss Angie’s situation” with the psychiatrist, and she’s exhausted. Betsey has been throwing a temper tantrum for the past hour as only a two-year-old can, and she has to calm her down because she doesn’t want to foist her screaming daughter off on Angelica. She can tell the boys are getting restless, waiting for things to go back to normal, looking for answers that she can’t give them. After spending a day in the orphanage office trying desperately to catch up on everything she missed, she’s exhausted and the day is not over.

She gets out of her car and starts to walk up to the door and then her phone rings and it’s Alexander and so of course she has to answer.

“Eliza,” he says, as soon as she picks up, “What is tomorrow?”

“Thursday,” she answers, automatically. “Why?”

“Because Philip is under the impression that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and I am under the impression that he’s _right_.”

Eliza feels like an idiot, standing stock-still a foot in front of the doors. A woman walking out looks at her oddly, but she’s too startled to react.

“I—knew that,” she says. “We knew that. I was shopping for it when—when I got the phone call. I didn’t even—why didn’t the kids say anything?”

“I have no idea,” Alexander says, and he sounds as exhausted as she feels. “Are we just going to say fuck it this year?”

“No,” Eliza says, on reflex, and then realizes how stupid that is. “I—yes, we have to. What do I tell the kids?”

“I don’t know,” Hamilton says. “What have you been telling them so far?”

“Not enough,” she admits. “They know—not very much, about Philip. That he was shot and that he’s going to be okay. I haven’t—said anything about Angie, because I just don’t _know_.” The frustration seeps into her tone and she forces herself to hold it back. “I’m going to go talk to her doctor.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll let you do that, then.”

“Wait,” Eliza suddenly misses him fiercely, and she doesn’t want to hang up yet. “How are you doing?”

“Well,” says Alexander, “Everything I have eaten in the past few days has been from the hospital cafeteria or a vending machine. The only reason I have changed clothes is because my colleague called my sister-in-law and shipped some here. And I’m standing in the hallway so I can talk to you while Philip talks to his girlfriend.”

Eliza is silent for a long moment.

“You still there?” he asks.

“Since when has Philip had a girlfriend?”

“Since—I’m not sure, actually, but it’s _Theodosia Burr_.”

“How old is she?” Eliza asks.

“Eighteen, I think,” Hamilton says. “I mean, technically they’re only about a year apart, but Philip’s—“ he starts to say, _Philip’s about to graduate,_ and then he stops.

“What is it?” Eliza says.

“We need to—us, and Philip, and the doctor—we need to figure out what he’s doing. About school. There’s only another few weeks in the semester, and he wants to finish it out, and next semester is supposed to be his last one, but…”

“But…” he can hear the concern in Eliza’s voice, as she tries to piece together what is worrying her husband.

“Eliza, he can’t even sit up without pain,” Alexander says. His voice has grown softer, but she can hear the quiet anguish in it with terrible clarity. “He’s got an exam that I know he won’t be able to take. He has papers due, and he’s not strong enough to write emails. Even assuming he talks to the university and finishes out this semester, will he be able to return this spring?”

Eliza falls silent again. She has been so hyperfocused on surviving each day, each moment, that she has not been thinking about the future. She realizes that she has clung to the same thought that her children are: that things are going to go back to normal at some point, and she just has to hang on until they do.

Now, the future stretches out before her bleak and endlessly uncertain. Their life is not temporarily displaced, but warping into something different. They will have to adjust their expectations for the future.

She has told herself, over and over again, that there is no returning a bullet to a gun, no reversing Philip’s injury, but now she realizes that the bullet has torn through her son’s body and her daughter’s mind and her life and Alexander’s and the lives of all of their children, that they can pick up the pieces and try to heal but there will always be scar tissue.

“Eliza?” Alexander says.

“We’ll talk about it,” she says. “I need to go see the doctor now, but—we’ll talk about it. And it will be okay.”

“I don’t think so,” Hamilton says, and he sounds—almost like he’s breaking. “You didn’t see him today, Eliza, he woke up and tried to move and—he’s hurting and I _can’t help him_.”

“It will be okay,” she repeats, firmly. “It will—it won’t be the same, but it will be okay.”

This time, for the first time, Alexander is silent.

“Talk to Philip,” she says. “Just—talk about the possibilities. And talk to the doctor. And I will talk to Angie and her doctor and we—we’ll figure it out. How to move forward.”

“Alright,” he says. “When you’re done, call me—you haven’t told me what’s happening with Angie.”

“I’ll call you,” she says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

\---

Theodosia is putting on her coat when he walks back into the room. She looks apologetic. “I have to pack, still. Thank you for letting me visit.”

“Thanks for coming, Theo,” Philip says, softly. “It was good to see you.”

“Have a good Thanksgiving,” Alexander says. “Say hi to your dad for me.”

“I will,” she says, and smiles at Philip, and then goes.

“I like her,” Alexander says, because somehow his son’s formerly-secret girlfriend has become the less awkward topic of conversation. “She seems like she can keep up with you.”

“I’m the one trying to keep up with her,” Philip says with a grin, and then it fades. “But that’s not what you want to talk about.”

“No,” Alexander says. “We need to talk about school.”

“I’ve heard back from some of my professors,” he says. Theodosia has apparently returned the phone—it is lying face down on the mattress, a few inches from Philip’s hand. “I don’t have to take the exam, she says she’ll just average the midterm scores. And my social poetry professor says that getting shot as a result of a political debate is the most interesting excuse he’s ever gotten from a student, so I’m getting an A in that.”

“Okay,” says Alexander. “We need to talk about next semester, though. We need to talk to the doctor about what this is going to look like, and start to think about our options.”

“I’m going to be here for about another two weeks, if everything goes well,” Philip says. He leans back against the pillow and tips his head up towards the ceiling. His eyes close, and for a second Hamilton thinks he might be falling asleep, but then realizes he’s recalling something from memory. 

“My arm’s going to be in a cast for another two weeks beyond that, but she thinks it’s going to heal without complications. Which is good. One of my ribs was nicked by the bullet, but that’s the only other bone damage. It also impacted my—I can’t remember which intestine, but she thinks they repaired that in the initial surgery. As far as she can tell, it’s healing like it should be, but we’ll find out if there’s a problem when they start letting me have nutrition that doesn’t come from an IV. Aside from that, it’s mostly tissue damage.” Philip stops, opens his eyes and takes a breath. He’s a little pale.

It’s obviously draining, but Alexander is comforted by the monologue. Philip has never been quiet, not as a baby or a child and certainly not now. He hasn’t realized until now just how much he was unsettled by the limitations of his son’s energy, not until he hears him speaking in paragraphs again.

“You talked to the doctor,” Hamilton says.

“Yeah,” Philip says. “So, after that I’ll probably have to do physical therapy, although what that will entail depends on how everything else heals. And that will take—a while. But I don’t have to do it here, I could do that in DC.” He looks at his father for the first time since he started talking. “I think I’m going to take next semester off. Then I can take classes over the summer and finish my degree, or I could do my last semester next fall.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Alexander says. It’s not really a question.

“All day,” Philip says. “It’s—I wanted to graduate this spring,” he says, and he can see the flash of frustration. “But I—really don’t think I can.”

Alexander knows that he and Philip are the same, in so many ways, and so he knows how much it must hurt his son to admit it. He also has another question.

“You’re still in a lot of pain,” he says. “Will that go away?”

“It should, mostly,” Philip said. “Although maybe not entirely. Also, it’s partly my fault right now. I asked them to lower the dose of pain medication.”

“What?” Alexander demands. “Why?”

“I was thinking about this,” Philip says, “And I wanted to make sure I was thinking clearly, and the medication is really not helping that. And also, just in case the pain doesn’t all go away, I wanted to make sure I can live with it.”

The protective part of Alexander, the part that still flinches at every new image of Philip in a hospital bed, the part that wants his son to come home just because it means he’ll be able to watch over him, that part is upset that Philip would do this, that he’d put himself through more pain than necessary.

But mostly, he realizes, he’s just proud.

“You grew up,” he says, softly. “You grew up when I wasn’t looking. How does that happen?”

Philip shrugs with only his good shoulder. “Speaking of me being an adult, are you going to tell me what happened?”

“What?” Alexander says, thrown by the subject change.

“Mom slept in James’ hospital room for three days when _he had his appendix out_ ,” Philip says. “Who died to convince her to leave?”

“No one’s dead,” says Alexander, and then sighs. “But we kind of need to talk about Angie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you to my wonderful beta celestialshimmer, and to everyone who commented on the last chapter. I absolutely love hearing from all of you--thank you so much for taking the time to tell me what you think. Thank you also for your patience, as I know this chapter was a long time coming. Unfortunately, the semester is underway, and time is becoming a rather scarce resource. Rest assured, though, that I will keep writing as fast as I can.
> 
> Historical notes: Philip was shot on November 24 and died on November 25 of 1801. Thanksgiving was not a holiday when Philip was alive, but it is now--not exactly the Hamilton family's best holiday season, obviously. Speaking of family, Theodosia's return home is also a reference to Aaron Burr's "everyone who loves me has died"--she would be pretty much the only family he had.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for your responses and your patience. Please leave any thoughts/ideas/questions/criticism/emotional reactions in the comments, and feel free to come message me on Tumblr @catalists. (Oh--and if space westerns happen to be your thing, I'm also writing a Firefly!Hamilton AU [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5733727/chapters/13212247) that you should come check out.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be a long road, but neither of them are alone.

Angie slouches at the table and watches the clock.  Her mom is almost never late.  It’s a skill that Angie typically appreciates, because it’s hard to be on time everywhere when you have a husband like Alexander and seven children besides, but right now she’s kind of wishing that her mother was late more frequently.  If she was, the fact that it was six minutes past the beginning of the appointment would be less worrying.

Dr. Lang, she can tell, is getting a little impatient.  Angie doesn’t really care—she’s been waiting on pins and needles all day.  This is her _brother_ that’s been hurt, _Philip who could have died_ and she’s had to wait for answers.  She figures that Dr. Lang can wait for six—no, seven now—minutes for her mom to get there.

She sits up when she hears hurried footsteps in the hall, and then Eliza opens the door.  She looks tired—Angie is starting to have a hard time picturing her any other way.  That causes another stab of guilt.  Philip isn’t the only one causing Eliza to lose sleep.

“I’m sorry,” Eliza apologizes, taking a seat.  “I got a call from my husband on the way in.”

“Did you talk to Philip?” Angie asks immediately, before Dr. Lang can respond.

“No, honey,” Eliza says.  “Not just now.  Just your dad.”  Then she pauses and looks at Angie, hesitating, like she’s not sure how to continue the conversation.

“I remember, Mom,” Angie says, and she swallows but she can’t get rid of the lump in her throat.  “I want to know about Philip.  Is he okay?”

Eliza reaches across the table and takes her hand.  Her fingers are warm, and Angie clutches them tightly.

“He’s going to be,” Eliza says, steadily.

“What happened?” Angie asks.  “Who the fuck would shoot Philip?”

Eliza doesn’t even try to chastise her for her language.  “His name is George Eacker.  They had been arguing, and I guess—“ she shakes her head.  “I don’t know, sweetie.  I don’t think we’ll ever know why he did it.”

“He’s in jail, right?” Angie demands.

“Yes,” Eliza says.  “He’s been arrested.”

“Good,” Angie says, although it isn’t, really.  It just seems like something that should be good, but really she doesn’t feel any better knowing this man is locked up.  She can’t picture him—can’t picture anyone who’d want to hurt her brother.

Eliza nods; Angie’s not sure her mom really thinks it’s good, either, but at the very least she’s good at pretending.

“Can _I_ talk to Philip?” Angie asks, then.  That’s really all that she wants right now, is to hear Philip’s voice.  She misses him—has missed him ever since he went off to college, when he stopped living in the room next to her.  When she was little and couldn’t fall asleep, when the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to be reaching out to grab her and swallow her up, she’d run next door to him instead of all the way downstairs to her parents.

She’s outgrown that, of course—it’s been years since she would slip into his room in the middle of the night and sit on his bed. She would whisper his name until he sat up, blinked at her in the darkness, and acted annoyed but never made her leave.  Even so, sometimes she lies awake and worries about things far more sinister than the silhouettes of tree branches against her curtains, and wishes he was still only a few feet away.  Not because she wants to wake him—she doesn’t think she ever would, she hadn’t in a long time, even before Philip went to school—but because it would mean she could.

“I think so,” Eliza says. “Your dad said he was awake and talking to his girlfriend.”

“Oh, Theodosia?” Angie says without thinking, and then presses her hand to her mouth.  “Whoops.”

Eliza sighs.  “Well, at least he told someone in this family about it.”

“She’s really nice, Mom,” Angie says.  “I think you’ll really like her.”

“I’m sure she is,” Eliza says.  She still sounds tired, but there’s some amusement in her expression.  “I’m just curious when Philip was planning on telling us about her.”

Angie shrugs, “They weren’t, like, official for a while.”

Dr. Lang clears his throat and they both look at him.  For a few minutes, Angie had forgotten that he was there.  “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Hamilton,” he says.  “I was hoping we could talk about how Angie is doing.”

“Yes,” says Eliza.

“I’m doing better,” Angie says.  “I want to go home.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Dr. Lang says.  “Although there’s obviously been a temporary improvement, it’s entirely possible that she’ll dissociate again if she’s stressed.”

“I’m right here,” Angie says, annoyed.

“I think it’s for the best if you stay here,” he says, this time addressing her instead of Eliza.  “It would help to keep you under observation and come up with a treatment plan in case this does become a recurring issue.”

“I don’t,” Angie says.  “I’m bored, I’m not doing anything here.  It’s not making me feel better anymore.  Why do I have to stay here to come up with a treatment plan?”  She’s starting to get frustrated with being told what’s best for her.

“What would make you feel better?” Eliza asks, practical as always.

“Talking to Philip,” she says.  “Being home.”

“Okay,” Eliza says.  She turns to Dr. Lang, “Would it be possible for Angie to come home?”

“We don’t have a plan in place yet,” Dr. Lang says.  “We don’t have a formal diagnosis or anything for the long term.”

“Would it be possible as an outpatient program?” Eliza says.  Her voice is as calm as ever, but there’s a hint of steel in her eyes.

Dr. Lang considers it.  “Yes,” he says, “Although I wouldn’t typically recommend it.”

“Please,” Angie says, with a quick glance at her mom.  She knows that she doesn’t have a lot of leverage here—not any, really.  If her mom had sided with Dr. Lang, she’d be stuck here.  If Dr. Lang decided to be insistent, same thing.

It all rides on Eliza, who has a certain amount of power as Angie’s legal guardian, but a lot more power as the wife of the Secretary of the Treasury.  Most importantly, Angie thinks, her mom has a good sense for diplomacy.

“Is that an option for Angie?” Eliza says.  “At this point, I think it would be less stressful to have the family together.  I can bring her here as often as necessary.”

He nods, slowly.  “Come with me to get the paperwork for her discharge, and we’ll discuss a treatment plan.  At the very least, I’d recommend that she meet with a psychologist or therapist.  I can refer you to someone.”

“Of course.  Thank you,” Eliza says.  She gives Angie’s hand one more squeeze.  “I’ll be back soon, okay?”

“Okay,” Angie says.  She squeezes back, and then lets go.  Eliza is almost out the door when she adds, “Also, what are we doing for Thanksgiving?”

\---

Philip examines the plastic cup of water in front of him.  “Here goes nothing.”

“It’s fine, no matter what happens,” Alexander promises.  “This is just an experiment.”

“It’ll be fine,” Philip says, with a great deal more confidence than he feels.  “No one’s ever puked up water.”  He hesitates.  “You’ve never thrown up water, right?”

“No,” Alexander says, “I haven’t.  But I’ve also never had a gunshot wound in my gastrointestinal system.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” Philip says.  He plays with the straw for a moment, and then cautiously sips from it.  “Okay, that felt totally normal.”

“Good,” Alexander says, sounding amused.  “Now give it half an hour and say that again.”

Philip takes another sip.  “I’m not going to throw up water.”

Alexander doesn’t reply, because his cell phone is ringing.  “It’s your mom,” he tells Philip, and then answers.  “Hi, Eliza.”

Philip watches him.  His dad’s expression is a little lighter, now, although a faint grimace etches his features whenever Philip tries to sit up or talk for too long and the extent of his injuries becomes clear again.  “Yeah, he’s awake.  Drinking water.  No, we don’t know yet.  Philip’s insistent he’s not going to throw it up.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Philip says, and then Alexander hands him the phone.

“I believe you.  Your mom wants to talk to you.”

He takes it.  “Hi, Mom,” he says.

“Hi baby,” she says, softly.  “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Philip says.  It isn’t strictly a lie, and he actually will feel pretty good if it turns out he’s allowed to consume liquids again.  He feels fine so far, about a quarter of the way through the glass.  “How is Angie?”

“She’s doing well,” Eliza says.

“Dad told me what happened,” Philip informs her, which is technically true although it still left him with no real idea what’s going on.  Either way, though, he’s hoping the idea that he’s already been told will entitle him to a little bit more information.

“She’s doing much better,” Eliza concedes with a small sigh. “We just got home.  She’s sitting here right now, holding her hand out for the phone.  Do you want to talk to her?”

“Yeah,” Philip says, staring at the water glass.  It continues to sit innocuously on the tray.  He does want to talk to Angie, but he doesn’t want to know how much this hurt her.

There’s a moment of silence on the other line, and then his sister’s voice.  “Philip.”  It’s quieter than he’s used to, almost hesitant.

“Hey, sis,” he says, brightly.  “What’s up?” 

She makes a sound that might be on its way to a laugh but could also be a sob.  “Well, I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but my stupid big brother got himself shot.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that,” Philip says, pausing to take another drink.  “Wow, what an idiot.  You should tell him that, next time you talk to him.”

“Oh, I will,” Angie says, with another choked laugh.  “Philip, what the fuck.  I was so worried.  What the fuck.”

“Aren’t you at home?  Don’t say that in front of William, he’ll repeat it forever.”

“Oh my god,” Angie says.  “You were shot, and you’re telling me not to cuss.”

“I mean, go ahead and cuss, just don’t do it in front of Will.”

“Oh my god,” she repeats.  “It’s fine, Will’s upstairs, Mom’s putting him to bed.”

“How’s Alex doing?” Philip asks.

“I don’t know,” Angie says.  “I haven’t been home.  Do you want to talk to him?”  There’s a vague trace of annoyance in her voice.

“No,” Philip says.  “I’ll talk to him later.  I want to talk to you now.”

“Okay,” says Angie.  “When are you going back to class?”

“I’m not,” Philip says.  “When are you?”

“Why aren’t you?” Angie says, alarm in her voice, entirely undeterred by his question.

“Because I won’t be recovered before the semester ends,” Philip says, practically.  “It’s fine.  I’ve worked out alternatives with my professors so that I can finish out the semester.  Independent study, sort of.”

“Okay,” Angie says.  “And you’ll be back in January.”

“No,” Philip says.

“What?  Why not?  I thought you needed more credits to graduate!”

“I do,” he answers.  “And I’ll take them next fall.”

“Why not this spring?” Angie has been counting on things going back to normal—Philip getting out of the hospital and going back to college, her going back to school, their dad coming home and going back to antagonizing everyone in American politics.

“Because—“ he hesitates.  “Angie, I won’t be ready by then.”

Angie is silent for a moment.  “Are you scared to go back?”

“What?”

“Like, because—because it happened on campus, didn’t it?”

“No—well, actually,” Philip pauses, because oh, right.  That patio over the stairs just outside the building was now the place where he had been shot.  “I hadn’t thought about it.  That’s not it.  I just won’t have recovered by then.”  Inserting ‘just’ into the sentence, he finds, does nothing to make it less frightening.

“You—what?”

“I—um, Angie, it’s going to be at least a month before my arms even out of a cast.  And that’s—that’s not the worst of it.  So—it’s going to be a while.”

Angie falls silent.  She hasn’t thought this far ahead.  She hasn’t thought past the fact that her brother is going to live to what it is, exactly, that he now has to live with.  Philip is one of the strongest people she’s ever met—the cleverest, the bravest, always confident and sure of himself.  She’s never known him to struggle or falter.

She has frequently been uncertain, afraid, unsure of herself and unsure of what is right, but Philip—he has always moved as though his path is illuminated clearly before him, a bright glow rising from the mists of the future.  She has always comforted herself with the fact that even if the way forward is not clear to her, it is to him, and he will always be there to guide her.

She can’t bear the thought of him being lost as well.  Her voice is very small when she finally says, “But it’ll be okay, right?”

Philip doesn’t hesitate.  “Angie, it’s already okay.”

She shakes her head even though he can’t see her.  “But you’re—hurt, and you can’t go back to school, and _someone shot you and you almost died--_ ”

“Angie,” Philip says, and his voice is still perfectly steady and that’s all she needs, she realizes.  Philip is staying calm, so it can’t be too bad.  “I know.  But Eacker’s been arrested, and I’m healing.  So everything is fine.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Angie says, and takes a breath.  Everything is fine.  “I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” he says.  “Hey, I should be home for Christmas.”

“Good,” Angie says.  “Does that mean you’ll be here for the spring?  Home in DC?”

“Yeah,” he says.  “Trust me, you’ll be sick of me by summer.”

“Never,” she answers, and means it.  So maybe things aren’t going back to normal right away, but Angie’s okay with that, if everything’s okay.  If Philip’s healing and coming home.

“Just you wait,” he says.  “Hey, Angie, I’m getting kind of tired, okay?  Can you tell Mom and Alex and the others that I’ll call them tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she says.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk for so long.”

“Hey, it’s fine.  I missed you.  You should text me, that’s easier.”

“I will,” she promises.  “Love you.”

“Love you.”  He hangs up and holds out the phone to his father, who is watching him with a raised eyebrow.

“You don’t look tired,” Alexander notes, pocketing the phone.

“I’m not,” Philip says.  “But I _am_ going to throw up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to my wonderful beta celestialshimmer, and to everyone who commented on the last chapter. It means so much to me to hear your feedback! Thank you also for your patience--I know this chapter was a while in coming, and I'm sorry to have made you all wait.
> 
> My life has gotten very busy, but don't worry--this story is important to me, and updates are going to continue coming. I'm also writing [a Firefly!Hamilton AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5733727/chapters/13212247) that you should check out if you like science fiction or causing yourself pain.
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think, or hit me up @catalists on Tumblr--I'm always happy to talk!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving, and a revelation.

“This was my idea,” John announces, proudly, his face a little too close to the lens of the webcam for him to truly be in focus.

“Mom, food’s here!” Angie shouts from somewhere else. “Where’s your wallet?”

“Hang on,” Philip can hear his mother much more clearly, somewhere close to John. “I’ll be right back.” 

The sound of footsteps as she goes, and then John pulls back from the screen a little to look at Philip more seriously. “Philip,” he says, attempting to pitch his voice as a whisper. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Philip grins and lowers his voice to match John’s. “Me too,” he whispers back. “I’ll come home as soon as I can, okay?”

“Okay,” John agrees, with a nod of satisfaction. “Angie misses you,” he adds, in a normal tone of voice, and then glances about and adds softly, “I do too.”

“I miss you guys too,” Philip says, unable to keep a smile entirely off his features. It’s true—it’s easy to lose the sense of homesickness when he’s busy with classes and friends, but the monotony of the hospital has made him miss his siblings more acutely than he has in a long time.

“When will you be home?” James nudges John aside to make space for himself in front of the screen.

Philip starts to grimace but hides it well, though from across the bed Alexander can see the corner of his mouth twist downward before he stops himself. “We’re—not sure yet,” he says, hedging, and Alexander rescues him.

“As soon as we can,” his father says. “Just a couple more things need to happen here.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Philip can fill in the blanks well enough. Once he stops throwing up everything he swallows. Once he can sit up for extended periods of time, stand up at all. The indignity has grown slowly, but it has grown. He’s tired of the exhaustion, the recurring pain, the inability to act for himself.

But he’s told himself that he can live with it. He has to live with it. This is his reality now, however much he might wish it to be otherwise. He can’t change how this has affected him. But he can change how he lets it affect his family, especially Angie.

So he smiles, partly because he is happy to see his family again, and partly because it’s the only thing he can do.

“Food’s here!” Angie announces, breezing back into the room and breaking the tension. “Serve yourselves, it’s on the counter.”

“Who decided on Chinese food?” asks James. “We could have gotten KFC. That’s more like real Thanksgiving.”

“Real Thanksgiving is exploiting Native Americans and dying of disease,” Alex Jr. announces, appearing with a plate piled high with orange chicken.

“You guys know that’s not even real Chinese food?” Philip asks, amused.

“It’s real food, which is the important part,” Eliza ends the conversation. “John, James, go get your food.”

“Since James doesn’t want it, I get his eggroll,” says Alex Jr. immediately.

“No, you don’t, it’s mine!” James protests.

“Oh, now it’s good enough for you,” says Angie, but she’s teasing.

“I want rice!” William says, and Angie stands at the same time Eliza does. 

“No, Mom, I’ve got it. You stay here,” she gives Eliza a look that Philip can’t quite read as she sets down her dish and follows William into the kitchen.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eliza says, sitting down on the couch and looking at the laptop. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Philip says.

“Alexander?” she asks.

“Hey,” Philip protests, but Hamilton takes the laptop from him.

“Hey, Eliza,” he replies. “Philip's doing fine. How are you?”

“I’m doing okay,” she sighs. “I can’t believe this is Thanksgiving. I ordered Chinese food. I can’t believe the place was even open.”

“The kids seem okay with it,” Hamilton shrugs. “They’ll survive. Thanksgiving’s totally arbitrary, anyway. We can always do it another time.”

“What are you eating?” she asks, a hint of reproach in her voice.

“Cafeteria spaghetti,” he says, holding up a black plastic dish. “I give it two and a half stars. It tastes like spaghetti-flavored plastic.”

“And what about Philip?” she asks.

“We’re giving the water another shot,” Hamilton answers. Strictly speaking, it’s the third time they’ve tried the water.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. “This wasn’t—did we expect this to happen?”

“Well,” he hesitates, so Philip jumps in.

“I’m fine, Mom,” he says. “I mean, I threw up, but we knew that was possible, and there’s no blood or anything in it, so my intestines are healing, they’re just not quite ready yet, she thinks anyway. So we just keep trying it.” He manages to keep his tone light. “I’m sure it’ll work soon.”

That attitude, Alexander knew, had been a little bit more accurate earlier that morning, the second time they’d tried it. After the watery vomit had given way to dry heaving, he’d been slightly less optimistic about trying a third time.

Eliza catches on; Philip has never been able to conceal much from her, and over the video feed she can see the exhaustion on his face, the faint hints of a grimace around his mouth. “Stay strong for me, sweetheart, okay? I promise it’s going to get better.”

“I know,” he says, the forced smile slipping away. “I’m just—tired. And tired of being tired. But I know it’ll be okay. Hey, William, what have you got there?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject as William and Angie return, John and James on their heels.

“Rice,” William says proudly. “And chicken, and, and an eggroll!”

“That looks good,” Philip says. “Did Angie help you with that?”

William hesitates, and then concedes. “Yes. But only a little!”

“Well, that’s okay, then,” he says. “Hey, Ange, how’re you doing?”

“I’m good,” she says. “It’s good to be home. What about you?”

“I’m good too,” he says, the lie much more practiced now. Eliza can still catch the way his smile doesn’t always reach his eyes, but the rest of them don’t seem to notice.

“Good,” Angie says. “Coming home soon?”

“Yeah, I should be,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ll be around to annoy you guys soon enough.”

“Mommy!” Betsy bellows, and Eliza goes to stand. “No, I’ve got it,” Alex Jr. says quickly, setting down his plate.

“No, you eat,” Eliza says.

“Mom,” Alex says, sharply.

“What?” she says. There is a heavy moment of silence.

“We heard you this morning,” James says.

Eliza blinks. “What?”

“Throwing up,” John finishes the thought. “We all did.”

“Wait, Mom, what?” says Philip. “You’re throwing up? Are you okay?”

“She did it yesterday morning too,” adds John, and everyone turns to look at him.

“You didn’t tell me that!” Angie says.

“I didn’t know what it was,” John defends himself. “And you weren’t here.”

“You didn’t tell me either,” Alex Jr. sounds very put out.

“Guys!” Philip effectively silences them. “Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says firmly.

Alexander has gone uncharacteristically quiet up to this point, but his soft, “Holy shit,” still carries through the laptop speakers.

“Dad!” Angie says, shocked.

“Alexander!” Eliza says at the same time. “It’s fine. It’s just stress and poor eating habits. I promise, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not sick.”

“I don’t think you’re sick,” Alexander says, slowly. “When’s the last time you threw up in the morning?”

His words hang in the air for a moment, and then Eliza pales. “Oh. Oh, my god.”

“What?” panic is started to spread across Angie’s features. “Mom, what is it? Are you okay?”

Philip looks like he’s having trouble keeping up the calm façade. “You could—you should see a doctor, it’s—“

John cuts them off easily, his voice rising to cut through the overlap. “Mom, are you pregnant?”

Another silence, this one briefer, as it sinks in.

“Oh,” whispers Angie. “Oh my God.”

“I don’t—I’m not sure,” Eliza says, looking at Alexander’s face in the laptop screen. “But—well, we’ll go to the drugstore and we’ll get a test and find out.”

“I mean, did—“ Philip starts to say, and cuts himself off. “Wait, please don’t answer that.”

“More siblings?” James asks, wrinkling his nose.

“Please tell me it’s another girl,” Angie says.

“We don’t even know if there’s actually a baby yet,” Eliza says, sighing. “But I suppose we should find out. No,” she motions Angie and Alex to sit back down, as they both try to stand. “We can finish eating first. I’m hungry, and obviously we’ve already waited some time to find out, it can’t hurt to wait a little longer.”

“I could drive and go get it,” Alex Jr. says, hopefully.

“Not without your mom, you can’t,” says Alexander, who appears to have found his voice again. “You’ve still got a learner’s permit, kiddo.”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Alex protests the nickname.

“Do you really want to explain to the cashier why you’re buying a pregnancy test?” Philip adds, and Alex blanches.

“Yeah, okay, we can wait,” he says hastily.

“Good,” Eliza says, passing a hand over her face. “Let’s just…eat.”

No one seems to know what to say, and the only noises come from Eliza playing with her food and William chewing on his eggroll.

“Happy Thanksgiving, guys,” Philip says nonchalantly, taking another sip from the water glass. “Hey, Dad, how many of us were planned?”

“What does that mean?” John asks, as Eliza sighs into her plate.

“All of you but Philip,” Hamilton says. “We didn’t actually want Philip, he just showed up one day and we thought, wow, we’ve got a baby now. Maybe we should have another one to get it right.”

“Hah,” says Angie, sticking her tongue out at Philip.

“Hey, they had me,” Alex Jr. shoots back. “Clearly you weren’t perfect either.”

“No,” Angie fires back immediately, “They wanted more of me, I was so great. Too bad they got you instead.”

Eliza laughs. “Your dad’s kidding. We wanted all of you, and we love you all because you’re all perfect.”

“I’m not perfect,” John says, seriously, his eyes getting big with worry. “Does that mean you don’t love me?”

“You’re perfect to me,” Eliza says.

“Oh, good,” James says. “I have something to tell you about my math test, then.”

Philip makes a sound as though he’s choking. Hamilton turns to him, alarmed, already moving to pick up the trash can and hand it to him. 

Then he realizes that Philip is laughing, so hard that he can’t speak. His hand is still curled around the water glass, but he can’t compose himself enough to lift it.

“I—“ he finally manages, struggling to catch his breath, “—really hate you guys. Stop making me laugh. It still hurts.”

“Sorry,” John says, sincerely.

“I’m not,” James chimes in, unrepentant.

Philip picks up the water glass and takes another sip, then examines it. It’s three-quarters empty, and he absently swirls the remaining liquid around in the bottom of the glass.

Hamilton notices. “Feeling okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Philip says. There’s no rising nausea, no sudden pain in the pit of his stomach. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says. “Let me know if that changes, okay?” He leans over, blocking the webcam for a moment, and mouths, _“You don’t need to lie to us if you’re not okay.”_

Philip nods. “Don’t worry,” he says, softly. “I promise, I’m okay.”

“I’m going to worry anyway,” his father says, with a sigh, but sits back in his chair.

“Okay,” Alex Jr. says. “So if Mom’s pregnant—“

“We don’t know that,” Eliza says. “It could be something else.”

“Okay,” he rolls his eyes. “So Mom is _hypothetically_ pregnant. And so, if _hypothetically_ , there’s a baby, and less hypothetically, Philip’s coming home for a while…”

“Yes?” Eliza says, motioning him to continue.

“Who’s sharing rooms?” he finishes.

“Not it,” James responds, immediately. “I already have John, anyway.”

“It’s my room too,” John protests immediately. “And Philip can stay with us.”

“Philip still has a room,” Eliza says. “It just has some boxes in it.”

“Wait, what?” Philip says. “You’re using my room as a storage closet?”

“Dad reads too many books and then writes too much shit,” Angie stage-whispers. “And then we have all these books and notebooks and we don’t have space, so we stick them in your room.”

“Oh, come on,” Hamilton protests, “This is hardly on me.”

“I don’t want a baby,” William announces. “We have a baby.”

“Betsey’s not really a baby any more, though,” Angie corrects.

“We don’t even know anything!” Eliza protests. “Who says there’s even a baby?”

“There’s a hypothetical baby,” Alex Jr. says. “There’s maybe a baby and there isn’t. Schrodinger’s Baby.”

Eliza groans and stands up. “You know what? Come on. We’re all going to the drug store. No more hypothetical baby. Just an actual baby or no baby at all.” She turns back to the laptop. “Alexander, you need to sleep in a real bed tonight, please. Philip, sweetheart, please let me know how you’re doing. I love you both.”

There’s a ragged chorus of love-you and goodbye from the rest of them before she shuts the laptop.

“So,” Philip says, after a moment. “You’re going to go home, right?”

“What?” Hamilton says. “Of course not. I’m staying here with you.”

“Mom’s pregnant,” Philip says, flatly. “She’s going to call in like half an hour and tell us she’s pregnant. You need to go home.”

“I need to be here for you,” he replies, immediately.

“You need to be there for Mom and Angie and everyone else,” Philip says. “I’m okay. I can—I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”

“You were shot,” Hamilton says. “And I wasn’t there, we weren’t—“ he breaks off, shakes his head. “I can’t stop worrying about you.”

“I’m going to be okay,” Philip replies, and holds up the cup to the light. Aside for a few stray drops rolling down the sides, the glass is empty. “See? Just fine.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hamilton says, but a smile is starting to spread across his face. “Give it another half hour, and when your mom calls to tell us you’re going to have a little brother, we can tell her she’ll be puking alone from now on.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Philip agrees. “Hey, if I had died, would you have named the new baby after me?”

Hamilton groans. “Please don’t even joke about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this took forever. Thank you all so much for your patience! I've been incredibly busy this past month, and I haven't been able to sit down and write for a while, so it's great to be back. This chapter is unbeta-ed, so if you see any typos that I didn't catch, feel free to point them out so I can fix them.
> 
> This chapter was a challenge in terms of the sheer number of characters to balance and have interact, but I hope it will be enjoyable to read as a result. Historically, Eliza's pregnancy is at least vaguely accurate to the timeline. The baby was born after Philip's death, and was also named Philip. By all accounts, the second Philip lived a quite long life. Actually, I only know one story about historical-Philip, which was that after William died in California of cholera, he went out west to bury him and wrote back and forth with his sister Eliza Holly about it. They agreed not to tell their mother about William's death, considering her advanced age and the distance, and so Eliza never found out.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you all. Please feel free to comment/critique/ask questions/anything below, and I'm on tumblr @catalists as well if you want to message me about anything at all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [some things you never grow out of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306936) by [dytabytes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dytabytes/pseuds/dytabytes)




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